Orange
by ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: Dave thought he would simply fade to nothingness once all had been said and done. He thought wrong.
1. Alive Not Well

**Orange**

Dave taps his fingers against the window in a steady rhythm as the subway speeds on. It's difficult to understand the whirl of events that had happened since the end of the game, even for him. He's not really sure_why_ anything even happened, because, really, he had been expecting what he thinks everyone else had been expecting.

He had thought he would simply fade to nothingness once all had been said and done.

And yet, here he is, sitting on the subway like a normal fucking day in the city. The scenery whips past, blurring from green to grey to black and back again. He's alive and he's human and he's home again.

But he's not home. Not by a long shot. He's alone and strapped for cash and trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do in this goddamn city.

No one even knows he's alive.

Dave slides down the seat, finally ceasing the endless tapping (much to the relief of his fellow passengers). It's not long before he's fidgeting again, though, and soon he's stretching the hem of his scarf to its limits. With an annoyed, albeit internal, grunt, he forces himself to drop the scarf. These are the only clothes he has, retina-scarring though they may be, and he has to take care of them. Who knows how long he'll need them?

He can't exactly go around naked, after all. Modesty and public decency aside, he'd end up looking like some kind of beaten war hero.

Which he is. He helped saved the world and for what? So that he could come back and struggle instead of just disappearing into the welcoming nothingness? Dave is tired of struggling. He just wants it all to end. This isn't his world, these aren't his people. He's all that's left of a broken world and no one is there to remember him.

But he remembers them, and it makes it just that much worse.

Dave sits up again and begins to tap his foot, this time in another rhythm. He's a human metronome and he can't seem to stop. _Tap, tap, tap. _The other passengers find his constant fidgeting annoying, but he can't do a thing about it. _Tap, tap, tap._

This isn't how he had wanted it. It shouldn't be him snaking train rides from stop to stop, it shouldn't be him stealing coins from fountains when no one is looking. He should be at his apartment in his bed with his bro playing some sick jams on the other side of the door. It didn't end up that way, though, and now it's some other kid, some lame prick he had to go back to save because he was too fucking _useless_ to—

Dave takes a deep, slow breath and stops. The other kid. The other.

But when he's being honest, really honest, below that layer of pseudo honesty where he's truly resentful of this fucking world and everyone in it, he knows that _he's_ the other. _He'_s the spare, not the other kid. Not the other him.

Past him.

It's not really past him, though, not anymore. They've gone beyond that and now maybe even Dave is past Dave and it hurt his mind to think about. His head hurts a lot these days, because when you're hungry and poor and alone in a place you don't even want to be, you think about things. And for Dave, thinking about things means thinking about time and all the damned problems and paradoxes that go along with it.

Because he's a paradox. He's willing to admit that now, after hours of careful deliberation spent waiting for the night security guard to just get the fuck away from the fish pond at the old mall. He's a paradox and he shouldn't even be here.

After all that thinking, Dave could come to only one conclusion. He's here because the game wants one last sadistic dig at him, a reminder of why you shouldn't try and bend the rules. He's here because it's a punishment. He has to live his life alone, apart from these friends from another life and watch the world move on without him, the product of a completed session. Everything is back to normal, like nothing had ever happened.

And Dave is the only exception. He isn't part of a completed session, he's the dregs of a failed one. No one remembers and no one will remember. He's leftovers at the back of the fridge that remain forgotten until everything else is gone and he's too rotten to be of any use.

He doesn't hate his friends and he doesn't hate himself. That's what he tells himself, anyway, trying to push the misguided anger down. These are the cards he's been dealt and he might as well play to the end. He's been doing that long enough to know the cheats, anyway. They'll live and he'll live and they might as well be on opposite sides of the fucking planet because he is never, _ever_ going to ask them for help. Not from John "How Are You Doing?" Egbert or Rose "Psychobullshit" Lalonde or even Jade "Ascended" Harley. Not from any of them.

They aren't his friends to ask.

The door slides open and a blonde, bespectacled youth shuffles in. Dave's heart stops and he stares hard at the boy as he takes a seat opposite him. But he knows. He can tell by the way the boy barely spares him a second glance, the way he slouches in his chair and turns up his music like he doesn't have a care in the fucking world. The kid doesn't even remember him.

And that makes Dave angry.


	2. Popsicles

"Strider?"

Dave thinks he can feel his heart stopping. His body won't move, won't respond. It has been forever since he's heard someone call his name, his real name. He can't even begin to fathom a response.

"Strider, that _is_ you, isn't it?"

Dave pries his hand from the cold bark of the tree and turns impossibly slowly to face the mildly curious face of the girl behind him.

His sister.

"What are you doing, skulking around my house in the dead of winter wearing nothing but…well, that." Rose gestures to his thin attire.

A thousand questions spring up in his mind and he can't choose which one to ask first. His mouth makes the decision for him and he instantly regrets it. "How did you find me."  
>She raises her immaculate eyebrows skeptically. "I cannot say you exactly <em>blend in<em> with your surroundings. Neon orange on fresh snow does not a good camouflage make."

Of course. That was an utterly idiotic question and Dave hates himself for asking it. Out of all the things he could have said, all the things he_should_ have said, that was the one his unconscious mind had gone for. Fucking fantastic.

"Do you want to come inside, or would you prefer me to dig you out of the ice and defrost you come spring?"

Finally, the cogs in Dave's brain begin to spin and he steps back, unsure. "You remember me," he asks.

Rose purses her lips. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

It takes everything he has, but Dave manages to turn away. She's wrong. She thinks he's someone else. "I think you're mistaking me for someone else."

Before he can leave, however, Rose grabs his arm. She has other ideas, she always does. "I think I know _exactly_ who you are. Now will you go inside or freeze out here with the rest of the forest?"

Unsure, Dave follows. He doesn't want to trust her. Maybe she thinks it's Dave, her Dave, pulling some kind of prank. Right now, though, he doesn't care. He's cold and tired and sick. He wants this infernal purgatory to end.

"I can't say the indoors is much better than the out," Rose is saying as she leads him back to her house. "I fear I have been having an ongoing battle with my mother over the thermostat. Though," she says, violet eyes travelling over Dave's shivering body, "I may be able to make an exception."

"I don't give a shit what you do," Dave replies. He doesn't want her pity. He'd rather freeze.

"Too cold to metaphor?" The corners of her lips twitch but she doesn't smile. She just watches him as they come to a halt at the front door. She lets them both in and disappears for a few minutes, leaving Dave to stand in the front hall. It feels like bad hostessing but Dave knows why she's doing it; she's giving him an out. He can still run if he wants to. He can still leave.

Dave won't leave, though. He's tired of running. He can't run anymore. He can barely even stand.

Rose returns after a few minutes, offering him a blanket. "I've adjusted the thermostat," she says. "It will take a while to warm up." There's a lot to warm.

She leads him into the living room and tells him to sit. Numbly, he obeys. Dave doesn't know what he's supposed to be feeling right now, so he feels nothing. He wants to ask her more but he's afraid. He doesn't want to believe she remembers.

It might be a lie.

Rose leaves again and comes back. This time her absence is shorter. She gives him a steaming mug of boiled grasswater. Dave hates tea but he drinks it anyway, all at once. It burns his throat but at least it's warm.

"So." Rose sits beside him, hands folded on her lap, legs neatly crossed at the knee. Dave doesn't know what to say. "How have you been?"

"Fucking peachy," Dave says. It's automatic response. It doesn't mean anything and Rose knows that. They lapse into silence for a long time, Rose periodically sipping her tea. She's watching him, though, that's the only constant. He feels like a deer caught in the headlights, trapped under her gaze.

Finally, Dave decides to speak. His throat tries to close up around the words but he forces them out anyway. He knows they won't make sense to her but he has to know. "Why do you remember."

Again, she raises her eyebrows slightly. "'Why do I remember?'" she repeats.

"Fuck." Dave rubs his temples roughly between his forefinger and thumb. He doesn't know how to explain it. He wants her to understand, but he can't even do that so why should she? "No one else remembers me.""

"Oh?"

Dave fights to keep his voice steady. He's had years of practice being the coolkid, but lately even that has been difficult to maintain. "I saw…_him_."

"'Him'?"

"Are you going to repeat everything I say like a fucking parakeet or are you going to actually listen," he snaps. The words come out before he can even process what he's said and he regrets it. "Sorry."

Rose waves her hand dismissively. "Continue." She's used to him, of course she is. He's the weird one in this scenario.

"I saw him, that blond douchebag hiding behind the tinted specs," Dave says. He knows he sounds bitter but he can't help it. He's been driven too far too fast and he doesn't know how to stop himself. "That asshole didn't even remember me. He barely even looked up. We talked for all of, what, ten sentences before I just gave up." Dave has his head in his hands now and he doesn't remember doing it. His palms feel cold, but his cheeks feel cold too. He doesn't know how he lasted so long. He should be dead. The game wouldn't let that happen, though, would it? That would be too easy.

Too. Damn. Easy.

"Are you sure he didn't remember?"

"Pretty fucking sure, Lalonde. I'm no expert, but he _is_ me." Dave snorts. "_Used to be_, anyway."

"He is…confused right now, I think," she says.

Confused. _Confused to rhyme with batshit,_ Dave thinks. It's too much for him and he curls up. It doesn't matter how lame he looks right now. He's finished. Done. He is all out of fucks to give and that grants him a sort of peace. A cold, empty peace to be sure, but at least it's soothing.

Rose reaches over and pats his head benignly, then begins to rub his back in what she thinks is a soothing manner. It really just reminds him of his own timeline, when they were trapped together in an unbeatable game, alone and helpless. This isn't his Rose, it's the other Dave's.

"Strider, you're exhausted."

_No shit,_ he thinks. He doesn't say anything, though, because she's being nicer than usual and he doesn't want to push his luck any further.

"You did this before, didn't you?" she says, finally drawing her arm back and leaning against the couch.

"Did what."

"Gave up, I suppose."

Dave narrows his eyes behind his shades, thoroughly vexed. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean."

"Did you forget? When John died, you sat there for the longest time. I thought I nearly lost you, too."

Time stops. It does for Dave, anyway, because his mind won't let him process what she said. He's afraid to. If he does, he knows he will realize that she's talking about his timeline, the timeline she shouldn't know about, the one he experienced and vowed to retroactively circumvent from ever having happened. The one that was supposed to have disappeared.

But this was all bullshit, of course, because time didn't really stop and Dave was already thinking about it. There was no avoiding it.

"Is this…are you…" is all he can stammer out. Now he's being_really_ uncool. He was once a master wordsmith, spilling out only the sickest of raps from his luscious lips. Now he can barely manage to blubber a fragment.

"Before you jump to conclusions, no, I am not 'your' Rose," she says. "Though I think the entire concept of '_your_' is a bit idiotic in and of itself. Regardless, I thought I would clarify. I do remember, though, Strider. I was the Seer of Light, after all—it's in the job description to see a few things." Her lips twitch. "I know what happened to you, all of you, even if everyone else does not."

Dave nods. He understands now. She remembers him because she remembers _her_, the other her. It's not perfect, not by a long shot, but it makes him feel a little better.

He's not alone anymore.


	3. Vacation

Upon waking up, it takes Dave several minutes to recall the day's earlier events. As he slowly becomes aware of the apparent softness of the ground and the heavy warmth across his body, he finally comes to the conclusion that he probably _hasn't_ been lying out in the snow.

Unless, of course, he has finally succeeded and heaven is infinitely more boring than he has been told.

Dave sits up, shaking the thick blanket from his shoulders. It's still dark, but his eyes adjust quickly, saved by the illuminating pool of moonlight spilling through the window. The room is silent, save for the reverberating tick-tock of a nearby clock.

Rose has disappeared.

Almost regretfully, Dave stands. He shouldn't be here. He's crossing a line. He had promised himself he would make no contact, that he would hop trains out to some distant state where one could ever find him.

He had, of course, done none of those things. Not permanently, at least; he had visited many states, but he seems condemned to gravitate towards his once-friends. It's a sickness, really.

Dave stretches the aching muscles in his back. After years sleeping on hard ground, it's the soft cushions of the couch that have become uncomfortable. Careful not to make a sound, he pads across the hardwood floor to retrieve his scarf, coiled neatly on the hook where Rose left it. He feels much better with it wrapped loosely about his throat, a feeling much in the same vein as the one that forces his inclination for wearing shades of orange and white above all other colours—despite their clear disadvantages to his lifestyle.

Silently, Dave pulls on his worn canvas shoes. His hand hovers hesitantly over the doorknob and he breathes in slowly, praying it won't wake her.

His fingertips barely graze the cold metal of the handle when Rose speaks.

"Are you leaving already?"

Terrified, Dave freezes. His leg muscles contract, a response conditioned by years of experience, alert and ready to launch him through the likeliest opening at a moment's notice. He has to consciously fight to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground.

"I…" Dave struggles to keep his voice level, but no words come. What excuse can he give? Nothing believable, to be sure. It's too late. She's realized it.

But when Dave turns to look at her, he sees her standing in the hall, eyebrows raised slightly but otherwise lacking in distinctive expression. She isn't upset; she's merely observing. He's a germ on the slide of a microscope, and she is the examining scientist. Dave steps back, unsure.

"I was going to do laundry later. If you would like to offer your…_apparel_, I could do a load of oranges." Her eyes linger on his thin, tattered clothes, stained with the dirt of the ages. "They may last longer if you do."

"I don't have any spares," Dave finds himself saying, as though entertaining the notion. He's not, really. He doesn't want to stay. He doesn't want to trick himself into believing that there's a place for him here. She's his Rose, yeah—but she's also theirs. Fading into obscurity would be best.

"I hadn't intended on doing the wash quite so early, but I can lend you some of John's clothes while you wait. Perhaps take a bath yourself?" Her lips twitch the way they always do when she's laughing at a joke only she is privy to. Dave will find out soon enough, he is sure. That is, if he stays.

He does stay.

He can't not. Not after she caught him at the door, ready to disappear into the early morning without so much as a good-bye. He follows her, beaten, up the stairs again. He watches her go through a dresser and pull out some clothes—none of them in his preferred colours—and reach to drop them in his hands. Dave pulls away, shaking his head. He doesn't want to touch the clothes yet. He's not clean.

Rose looks at him briefly, then gives a nigh-imperceptible shrug and leads him back out the door, down the hall and to the bathroom. She deposits the fresh clothes on the sink ledge and then waits outside the door as he pulls his own damaged garments off. He passes them carefully through the tiny gap he creates before quickly shutting the door again and locking it with an audible _click!_

Dave takes a long time in the bath, far too long, but he blames Rose for the wasted water. Give a man access to hot water after years of bathing by night in frigid streams and fountains and he'll damn well use up all you've got. He alternates between taking a bath to soak the grime off, then taking a shower to rinse it off, and back to a bath just because he can.

Finally, he thinks he can take no more and steps from the bath, waterlogged and pruney. He dries off, unused to the luxurious quality of the towels. These don't drag at his skin, rough and unpleasant; instead, they are soft and comforting.

Dave reaches over and grabs a shirt, pulling it over his head without thinking. It's blue and hangs like a bad dress. He realizes that John must taller than him, much taller, and he feels like he's been left behind again. He pulls on the slacks and has to roll them several times to make them wearable. He glances in the mirror and flinches at the image. He looks far too white and small, and his hair is an unnatural shade of ginger. He's given up trying to hide his eyes, though more out of contempt for the game than actual progress. He just doesn't care now. Red or orange, it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

He steps out of the bathroom and Rose is nowhere to be seen. He's not surprised; maybe she knows he won't leave without his clothes. That's why she was smiling, he realizes. She knew John's clothes would be like a tent on him.

"Would you like some breakfast?"

This time he doesn't jump. He's slowly becoming used to the way she travels around the house, silent as if floating. He just turns slowly on his heel, a blank expression on his face.

She's still watching him uncomfortably closely. There are dark circles under her eyes, emphasizing her violet eyes and pale and pointed face. Her lips are slightly pursed, her default expression, thoughtful and mysterious with just a hint of self-importance.

"No," says Dave. His stomach growls loudly, giving away his bluff, and Rose gives a tiny, wicked smile.

"Really?"

"Fuck off."

But carefully and ever so slowly, she reaches out and takes his hand. His first instinct is to pull away, but something in him makes him obey as she pulls him back down the stairs and away to the kitchen. He sits and watches as she pulls out flour, eggs, sugar, milk… Had he known enough about cooking, he would recognize the beginnings of a batch of pancakes. Dave doesn't know cooking, though, or baking, or really anything related to food. He knows how to tell if berries are poisonous (usually) and what plants he can eat without getting too sick (sometimes).

Tired but willing, Rose moves about the kitchen, preparing the meal. Dave wonders if he should offer to help but knows it's best for the end result if he doesn't. Instead, Rose works quietly and efficiently, until Dave suddenly has a steaming stack of flapjacks before him.

Dave doesn't think of manners as he eats, and, frankly, he's never really had the opportunity to learn them past a certain extent. He shovels food into his mouth like a starved animal. That's what he is, though, and he doesn't care about hiding it.

He does recognize the cut-off point, though. He stops before the last pancake, setting down his utensils and leaning back. Dave wants to eat it, he really does, but he knows that if he forces one more bite down his throat, it will all come back up again and the entire exercise would have been pointless.

"Were they alright?" Rose asks, leaning on the table.

Dave gives a stiff nod. He doesn't want to speak.

"Very good." She stands and takes his plate, washes the dishes and returns the leftover batter to the fridge. "Perhaps you should rest while the laundry finishes?"

Dave narrows his eyes slightly. He knows his clothes should be done. Now she's the one making up excuses.

Rose seems to realize this and she gives her head a little shake. "I thought I would take it upon myself to mend your clothes. Or would you prefer I let you out on the world in nothing but rags?"

Dave gives a grunt in reply, but the pancakes have made him tired and the patches would be in his best interest. Rose nods and touches his hair briefly, then vanishes through a door and beyond his range of vision.

Content and heavy, Dave returns to the couch. He pulls the blanket up around him and grants himself this brief respite. He reasons that he deserves this. Everyone deserves a vacation and this is his, however short it may be. Besides, a little longer couldn't hurt much.

Right?


	4. Temporal Fuckery

Rose knits placidly on the couch, the soft clicking of steel needle against steel needle surprisingly soothing to Dave's ears. Somewhere in the distance a clock ticks, but he is beyond time. He's lost the ability to perceive it as a thing. He knows there are numbers, yes, and he knows they correspond to hours of the day, but to him, none of them represent the reality. Clocks are fallible.

He, on the other hand, is not.

Not when it comes to time, at least. Dave knows when dawn comes, and dusk, but those are easy. No, he has transcended the trivial indicators of time, like the shadows on the ground and the sun's position in the sky. He doesn't need those, just like he doesn't need numbers. He just _knows_. He knows when to act, when to remain hidden. He knows when the police patrol and when the best time for pilfering coins from fountains are. He knows every train schedule, too—perhaps the most valuable of his temporal attributes.

Click, click, click.

Dave's mind is brought back to the present—or the typical perception of such—by the monotonous sound of Rose's knitting. He has been here a few days, but all he really knows is that the longer he stays, the harder it will be to leave.

Which is good.

No. No, that's wrong. Dave gives an imperceptible shake of his head. It is bad. Very bad. This isn't his world and, though this is his Rose, it also isn't his. She is theirs and he can't ever, ever cross that line because he's the doppelganger in this situation.

"_Even though I came first_," he thinks, the thoughts bitter even to his own mind. But he's beyond caring about the harshness of his words, because he's been like this too long and eventually he just couldn't pretend to hate himself for it. It wasn't his fault he was trapped in this world for however many years—years, yes, but how many? When he lost his grip on time, he may have lost it on reality two. How many years have passed since he woke up in the middle of who-knew-where clad from head to toe in neon orange garb and with skin as white as paper. He had drifted for a long time, unsure of what to make of his situation, confused as to where and even _when_ he was.

He hadn't completely lost his mind, yet, however, and he had managed to scrounge the date from some local newspapers. It had only been a few days since the supposed start of the game, but for him, it had been an eternity. He tried to remember how he had gotten to this strange backwater town, but his head would hurt and all he could recall was darkness, anyway. Darkness and then a sudden thrust into life.

No. Think. What was the date? It must have been six or seven years since. It had been at least a year since the fateful day he had seen himself on the train, older and taller and like more a man than his own tiny frame would ever allow for.

For the past few days, Rose had been slowly catching him up on the goings-on of his old friends. Or rather, of the happenings between her and John. She had yet to broach the topic of his duplicate or of the girl that had narrowly avoided his own fate, so he had taken to assuming that they had become a couple. It made sense, of course. She and John were in a relationship, of course, as he had always suspected might end up happening. Though, in his countless scenarios, he had never been the one on the outside of this tightly knit group. And yet, this is where he found himself now, alone and, until recently, completely friendless.

He pauses. Can Rose even be considered her friend? He feels that he's really just gone and forced his company on her. A sudden brother appearing from the woodwork—what was she supposed to do? Turn him away? Rose could be cold, but she was not heartless. Even with a mind governed by logic, she would have some nostalgic stirrings. Especially if her other self—his Rose—had merged with her at some point. No, she couldn't refuse. He could abuse her kindness forever and she still couldn't refuse.

That was another one of Dave's newly earned skills. He could manipulate people shockingly well. At first, he had been disgusted with himself for pulling the strings and making people dance like marionettes, but like all things with him, that, too, was worn down. He simply didn't care anymore. If it meant he had shelter for a night, or food, or could avoid arrest, well… Maybe it didn't matter so much if he was using people like tissues.

But…as strange as it felt, Rose was different. She was a tie to his world, a reminder that he wasn't batshit crazy. Well, at least not insomuch as imagining vivid back stories for himself, anyway. If she was here and she remembered, that meant that what he knew, what he had experienced wasn't just a bad dream.

It had been reality.

Dave was outside reality, now, though, and he was the one looking in. When he was too tired to scrounge for food or too weak to hop a train, he'd watch people. He couldn't stop the bitterness that whispered foul things in his heart as he saw them walk by, not pausing to spare him a glance. And why should they? This wasn't his world. He was practically an alien to them but a thousand times less interesting.

Suddenly, he feels a pressure on his arm and he jumps, every muscle in his body tensed to run.

"Dave?" Rose's voice is level, carefully controlled so as not to seem too insistent. She has been very careful with him, he knows. She has been trying to ease him back into some form of normality over the past few days.

He knows it won't work.

Rose's normal is an unfathomable distance from his own, and while it is good to be out of the painful cold, a house is more stifling than he could ever find the woods.

Dave forces himself to sink back against the cushions on the couch. He can't run. Not yet. Not after finding someone, _anyone_ in this damned faceless world. The wound is too fresh. He's not sure what too do, really. Staying isn't preferable but neither is leaving. It's a lose-lose situation.

Rose hasn't pulled her hand from his arm, regardless of his erratic movements. She give the pale skin beneath his sleeve a gentle rub, but it only makes him grow rigid with conflict. He can't stay. He can't go. Above all, though, he finds he can't hurt her. He can't simply vanish into the night like he had with so many other good Samaritans that had taken him in.

Heavy on his mind, though, is the division of feelings that this brings about: between staying and leaving, he can't decide which will cause her more pain.


	5. Promise

Dave perches on the couch, listening intently. He may not be great in stature or much in the way of stamina, but his senses are near inhuman levels of perfect. He can hear the soft sounds of Rose's measured breathing and the slight snore of a drunken stupor drifting down the stairs. In the distance, he can hear the tick-tock of the kitchen clock and the electronic hum of the refrigerator. Beyond this and the casual creak of a settling house, it is quiet.

The war that rages inside Dave's mind, however, is far from it. Even sitting on the couch, skin tinged blue and bathed in the cool moonlight, he can't find peace. His stomach is beginning to prickle uncomfortably and he rubs it roughly with the heel of his palm. It makes him sore, yes, but at least the prickling starts to go away—between the two, the latter is always worse.

Dave tries to comfort himself, to reason the guilt and the fear from his mind. This isn't something he can let himself get used to, after all. After all those years living in the outdoors, are the streets really not good enough for him anymore? No, he has let himself become spoiled with Rose's kindness. That isn't good for anyone. It only makes leaving harder.

Still, though. He doesn't welcome the idea of another night spent in the cold. It only makes his stomach ache and his limbs grow weaker.

_No_, he scolds himself. _Suck it up. Be a man._

Dave doesn't feel like a man. He still feels like a child, lost and alone and left behind as everyone else moves on.

He rubs his stomach again, harder, and this time under the worn fabric of his shirt, skin on puckered skin. The effect is starting to fade and he isn't enjoying the result. It's all this thinking, he decides, all this thinking and no doing. The longer he waits, the worse it will be. What he needs—what they both need, Rose and him—is a clean break.

The only way he can make a clean break, though, is if he doesn't see her before he leaves. The carefully calculated look of faint disinterest that masks her features, that hides the concern behind them. If he sees her, he's doomed. He will once again fall into the lull of security that he was becoming, however unwilling, used to.

No, this is for the best.

Silent this time, and careful-so much more careful than his first attempt-he pads across the room. He knows the creak of the floorboards now, and how to avoid them. Dave sidles along the walls and comes to a halt in front of the door. He steels himself. No hesitation now. Dave turns the lock with a sharp _click_ with a simultaneous tug on the handle. He slips out into the cold night and closes the door as softly as he can. Though the windowpane is frosted, he knows the Rose is not on the stairs. He is safe.

Dave gives one last look at the house, nods, and turns on his heel. He will wait in a tree until morning, until Rose or her mother comes to the door and realizes what has happened. He will wait for them to lock the door and go about their business, a little disheartened, perhaps, but safe.

Then, he will leave.

Dave begins to stride down the front lawn but freezes with the sound of a quiet cough. He turns, a flutter of terror in his gut. How did she know?

"Are you really going to try this again?" Rose asks, eyebrows raised in faint surprise. "Really, now. I expected better of you."

Dave panics and he can't think of what to say. Instead, he gives a physical choke and his instinct to run finally overpowers him. He spins around and begins to sprint down the rest of the lawn.

"Wait."

Just as quickly, Dave skitters to a halt and has to correct his balance to keep from falling into the mud. He waits, heart pounding painfully against his chest. Rose takes her time coming down to meet him. She can't see as well as he can in the dark, she isn't as used to relying on other sense, but this is something more. She's doing what she did the first night she let him stay.

She's letting him keep the option to run.

Dave keeps his feet planted firmly on the ground, but he can't keep the trembling from his limbs. What does she want? What will she say? Will she try and convince him to stay?

Rose pauses to reach into her jacket and pull out a length of orange before offering it out to him. His scarf. But when had she…

"I mended it for you," she says, as though knowing his thoughts. Without waiting for his consent, she steps closer and begins to wind the garment gently around his throat. "Perhaps it will be warmer now, without all the holes." Her hands linger on his arms and she offers him her faint smirk of a smile. His heart tears and he can't look her in the eye any longer.

"I'll…I'll come back," Dave finds himself saying uselessly. He can't repair the damage he's done. "I promise." To his surprise, he feels that he will, in fact, keep his word. He has no desire to break it.

Rose nods and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Keep yourself safe," she says firmly—an order.

Dave mutters a few words of consent into her hair and she pulls away, still smirking.

"Good-bye, Dave," she says, holding her hand up in what should be a wave but strikes him as more of a strange salute. He gives a jerk of his head and runs into the forest, as fast as his legs will carry him. He feels like he has to go as far as he can, like he has to run until he can't possibly return to that noble house and the sister he nearly lost.

By the time he stops, panting, and turns to look, Rose, the lawn, and the entirety of the house have been swallowed by the darkness.


	6. Sandwiches

The houses lining the street seem eerily identical as Dave strides down the cement sidewalk. A feeling that he shouldn't be here shivers in the pit of his stomach, but he pushes it aside. He knows where he is, though not how he ended up here. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the train that was so clearly marked for Washington. Maybe he should have gone left instead of right a few blocks previous. However he ended up here, he knows it isn't where he belongs.

The hair on the back of his neck is prickling with warning and his legs tremble slightly, as if to say, "Are you sure? Are you really sure?"

But for some reason, Dave doesn't want to back down. This path is a challenge and he's determined to see it through. But why? What will he do when he gets there? Honestly, Dave doesn't know.

His eyes are sharp but his focus is too intent on the conflict in his mind, and he nearly bangs his knee on a four-foot tall, peeling green pogo ride. His stomach gives a turn of revolt and plummets. A shiver runs up his back and across his shoulders because he knows exactly where he is and he's in plain sight. Before he can sprint down the street, away from this place he should not be, he hears a faint click and the front door of the house begins to open.

In an instant, Dave's survival instincts kick in. Where should he hide? The tree with the tire swing? No, that's too far. He'll never make it. There are no bushes, no ground cover. He does the first thing he can think of and drops to a crouch behind the pogo ride.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

What, did he think he'd blend in? Did he think a tiny children's ride could really conceal him? He's small, yes, but not quite _that_ small. Besides, the spring base will clearly show the orange of his clothes, the white of his skin.

John shuffles out, yawning. He bends down, reaching his skinny hand out to fetch the morning newspaper. Dave decides he's getting it for his father—he can't picture John reading him itself. For a bewildered moment, he wonders _why the hell_ he's thinking about something like that at a time like this. His muscles are tense but he won't move an inch, lest the action draw attention to his presence. His body begins to ache, conditioned for a quick escape and unwilling to stay still.

But then, something else draws Dave's attention. The way John is moving, the way his clothes hang off his frame—the thinness of his arms, his body, in contradiction with his height. Something in Dave's mind clicks. He hears Rose's voice in his head, saying something that seems to fit, but he can't decipher it among the loudness of his own thoughts.

Before Dave knows what he's doing, he's abandoned his hiding place and is striding straight down the lawn towards John.

And he's shouting.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you!" he calls.

John looks up, completely confused. "Uh…"

"I fucking _gave my life_ to make sure you lived and _this_ is what you do with it?"

John squints at him, unable to identify his aggressor. "Who…"

"I'm stuck in this shitty, backwards-ass world because I did something for you and what do you do? You turn into a goddamn human stick monster!"

But John suddenly seems to recognize him and he steps back, a look of shock on his face. The newspaper drops from his hand and bursts from the string as it hits the ground, spilling papers across the front step "Davesprite…?"

"Yeah. It's me. Fucking Dave_sprite_ you motherfucking asshole," Dave spits.

"I…why are you here?" It's too early in the morning for John to really understand, so he asks the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Because I came back to save you," Dave replies, his voice rising. "But I guess you decided that wasn't good enough, decided that you would _throw it the fuck away_, that—"

"I didn't fucking choose this, you know!" John snaps.

Dave is a little thrown by John's outburst, but he's too angry to care. "Yeah, well, I didn't choose to come back. Things fucking _happen_."

"It's not easy! I can't eat like this!"

"It is easy," Dave says, his voice suddenly dropping to a low, menacing note he hadn't been previously aware of. "It's not a complicated thing, John, eating. Or do you think starving is fun? It's painful, John. It really fucking hurts." Dave thinks of all the food that John must have in that house, all the shelter and safety and nourishment he could possibly need and yet is somehow not getting. It seems so ridiculously easy to him, that John should be able to somehow suck it up and just force some food down. _He's_ not the one living on the streets, after all. He knows where his food is coming from and he doesn't have to worry about suffering another day of a consecutively empty stomach.

"Of course starving isn't fun, you prick!" John shouts. It's his turn to be loud. "I know that! I know it hurts!"

"Do you?" Dave snaps. He thinks about all the times he's collapsed in a dirty alley somewhere, too exhausted to move but too cursed to die. He thinks about all the strategies he's had to devise to distract himself from the gnawing emptiness and the foodless tremors.

"Gee, I dunno," John says, spreading his arms and gesturing to himself. "Do _you_ think I do?"

The pain on John's face coaxes Dave's mind back to reality for a moment. John is right, of course; he didn't choose this. Maybe he was right. Maybe it _was_ that hard for him to stomach things. Dave falters, the rage ebbing away as quickly as it had come. He stands awkwardly on the front path, suddenly feeling very exposed. He shifts from one foot to another and he drops his gaze. He can't look John in the eye. No, he can't even look at John's feet. He's the one in the wrong here and he's feeling the regret.

"I…" Dave's voice trails off, suddenly shaking. He what? "I'm sorry."

Dave doesn't know what expression John's making. He can't bring himself to look; he's too frightened.

"I'm sorry," Dave repeats. "I was wrong. I'm sorry." The words keep coming out and it's strange, because Dave isn't sure he _feels_ particularly sorry. He knows he's made a mistake, done something terrible, but he doesn't have room in his heart to care. He decides he should, though, even a little, because this is John's life and he has the friends and the family to care for him. Dave is just an outsider; he doesn't know the situation. This isn't something he should be interfering with.

John still hasn't said anything and Dave still can't muster the courage to look at him. All he wants to do is slink away.

So he does.

"I'm sorry," Dave says one final time. "I'll…I'll leave you alone. Just…just feel better. I won't bother you again." He turns and begins to walk down the front path. He forces himself to keep from running; he will keep that dignity, at least.

"Stop!"

Dave chokes, nearly in unison with the sudden exclamation. He glances back, too startled to worry about looking at John, and sees that the dark haired boy is clutching one end of his scarf in his hands. John quickly drops the scarf.

"Sorry," he says, though Dave can't fathom why. Dave readjusts his scarf, watching the boy warily. John seems just as confused by his actions as Dave does. Finally, he speaks. "Do…d'you wanna go to a movie with me?" His voice is sort of sheepish, but Dave barely notices. He just stares at John, completely thrown by the question.

"What the fuck," says Dave, more as a reflex than anything.

John tries to smile, but it's clear that he's still not really in control of his emotions either. "Do…do you want to go to a movie with me? It's…been a while since I've seen you. We could catch up."

"What the fuck," Dave repeats. He's like a record stuck playing the same thing over and over, unable to deviate from the broken path he's been given.

John shrugs. He doesn't know how to rephrase the suggestion. Dave doesn't expect him to, either. After all, he had understood the question perfectly from the get go—it was the motive behind it that was confusing him.

"I don't have any money," Dave blurts out. It wasn't what he meant to say at all, though it's true.

"That's okay," John replies. "I'll pay."

"I just yelled at you like a complete asshole," Dave says, his tone harsher than he had intended. He's still trying to repair the damage, but it's difficult. It's not as easy to manipulate things like he usually does when John keeps throwing him curveballs. "I'm not going to let you pay for me."

John stands in the doorway, eyes still a little bleary from just waking up. He may have just participated in a shouting match, but the cogs in his mind are still warming up. "Well, do you want to come in and have breakfast? You're hungry, right?" John glances over Dave and Dave has a sudden urge to hide again. The damage is done, though, and it's hard to gloss over the fact that Dave isn't much better than the skinny boy standing in front of him.

John gives a slightly warmer smile and opens the door farther. Dave doesn't know what to do, hesitating by the steps, peering around John into his once friend's house. John reaches out and touches Dave's arm, but he visibly flinches away. John quickly draws his arm back, and Dave knows that this was the wrong response.

"Sorry," says Dave. But he's not.

"It's cool," says John. It's clear he doesn't think that, either.

For another awkward couple of minutes, they stand on the doorstep, watching each other.

"C'mon," says John finally. He leaves the door open and goes into the house. Still wary, Dave wanders inside. He shuts the door behind him, but doesn't enter any further. He stands there, back pressed against the wood of the door, looking around at the décor. The clowns (_Harlequins_, he reminds himself dully) are gone now, or at least mostly. There are a few tasteful decorations scattered about, and the air inside is clean and warm. As strange as it is, this is the closest Dave has ever felt to being comfortable inside a house. It reeks of normalcy—real normalcy, with a pleasant family and the presence of friends.

"Come on, you can come in," John calls from the kitchen. His voice carries a coaxing lilt to it. Dave presses against the door harder and his back prickles.

John pokes his head around the door jamb. "Davesp—Dave?"

At the sound of his name, his proper name, Dave's resolve weakens. He is about to step into John's living room when he catches sight of his grimy clothes. John's house is clean; this is just another way that Dave doesn't fit in.

"What's wrong?" John asks, still watching.

"I'm dirty," Dave says.

"So?"

"So your house is clean."  
>John pauses, then gives a little chuckle. His voice is deeper than Dave remembers, but he supposes that's obvious. It's been years since Dave has seen him and in that time, a lot has changed. John towers over him, though he still looks like he could break into a goofy smile at any time. Well. Any time apart from this.<p>

"Do you want to take a shower or something? I can lend you some clothes," John suggests. His eyes travel over Dave's body again and Dave winces. "Er. Well, I mean. Maybe I have some old ones in a closet somewhere that you could wear."

Dave gives a little nod and pulls off his canvas sneakers. He follows John quietly up the stairs, taking care not to smudge the floor more than he has to. John stops at a door and opens it, pulling a few towels from what Dave assumes is a linen closet. He holds them out to Dave, but Dave shakes his head. There would be no point if he just dirtied them now.

John must understand, because he shrugs and continues towards the bathroom. He puts the towels on the sink and gives a brief set of instructions on how to work the taps and which soaps he could feel free to use. Dave nods numbly.

"I'll put any clothes I find outside the door, okay?" John says. Dave nods again.

Then, Dave is left in peace to perform his ablutions. As uncomfortable as he is in this situation, the hot water is a blessing. He washes thoroughly, spends far too much time just standing under the jet of steaming water, and then washes again. Almost unwillingly, he at last turns the knobs to the off position and steps out, proceeding to towel himself dry. He pauses as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, then touches the splash of damaged skin on his stomach. He gives a tiny, bitter laugh and opens the door an inch. He spots the clothes that John has left them and quickly opens the door a little, snakes his hand around, and pulls them in to the bathroom with him. Much to his dismay, the garments are denim and a cotton blue. What did he expect? Orange from an Egbert? He snorts.

Dave pulls the clothes on with very little ceremony and opens the door. John is nowhere to be seen. Unsure of what to do, Dave leaves the dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. He shuffles back down the stairs, wondering how old the clothes he's wearing now are. They're far too small for John now; they must have been from when he was still in the beginning grades of high school.

He finds John in the kitchen, sitting at a table and munching on a sandwich. John smiles encouragingly through a mouthful of ham and gestures to the seat beside him. Dave slowly lowers himself into it and, with a nervous pause, shoots his hand out and snatches up a sandwich half that had been stacked neatly on his plate. He devours it hungrily, unconcerned as to how pitiful he looks. Food is food, after all.

When he's finished the second half, he glances up to catch John watching him thoughtfully, chewing slowly on his own sandwich. He hasn't finished much—only a quarter, it seems—but at least he's eating.

John pushes his own plate towards Dave. "Here."

Dave shakes his head vigorously. "No. You eat it."

John gives a painful little smile. "I don't think I can."

Dave eyes the sandwich lustfully. "Only if you finish the one you're eating now."

"Deal."

In the blink of an eye, Dave's snatched up this third half and is stuffing it in his mouth. John gives another little chuckle and Dave swallows noisily.

"Do you want more?" John offers.

Quickly, Dave shakes his head. "No." Truthfully, he does want more—a lot more—but he's still not really sure what's happening and he doesn't want to push it. Besides, the last time he ate as much as he wanted, he had puked most of it back up later. It had not been an enjoyable experience. Since then, he has taken care to learn his limits.

"Okay." After another painfully long ten minutes, John finishes. He takes the plates and stacks them in the sink, then stretches. "So, do you want to go to a movie?"

"I told you, I don't have any money."

"And I told you I'd pay."

"I yelled at you."

John shrugs. "I thought we were over that."

"I should go."

"You don't want to clean your clothes before you leave? I can put in a load of laundry," John says. "It would be finished by the time we got back."

Dave hesitates. He does want his clothes back. He doesn't feel comfortable in anything that isn't orange or white. It feels wrong. He looks down at the blue slime shirt. _It's wrong,_ he thinks. _This isn't my colour._

Aloud, he says, "Fine." John gives the smallest of dopey grins and goes off to collect the clothes, presumably to wash them. He returns a few minutes later. "What do you want to see?"

"I don't know anything that's playing."

"Really?" John raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"I have other concerns," Dave says. "Like not dying." That's a lie. Not dying isn't a concern so much as it's a sentence by now. It doesn't matter what Dave wants—he's going to survive whether he eats or not. But then, as he had learned years before, it's always easier to manage with a full stomach or a decent shelter.

"…oh," says John, and Dave knows he's said the wrong thing again.

"Never mind. Let's go," Dave says. "You can pick something when we get there."

John nods. "Yeah. Of course."

"You'd better pick something good," Dave adds for measure. "I won't forgive you if it's some shitty Cage flick." It's the first actor Dave can recall John liking, but it does the trick. John's smile starts to return, little by little.

"Come on, Dave! You just don't appreciate the talent that is the Cage."

"Yeah," says Dave. "I guess I don't."


	7. Hiding From a Pirate Ship

"How about we see 'Hiding From a Pirate Ship'?"

Dave glances up at the electronic board displaying the movie titles and times. Absolutely none of them mean a thing to him.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Come on! It's Keanu Reeves as a pirate king! You can't tell me that it won't be good."

Dave struggles to remember who Keanu Reeves is. "Sure."

John goes off to buy the tickets and Dave watches the movie commercials playing above the snack counter. It's been so long since he's seen a movie, it's a little overwhelming. He's not entirely sure he likes the scrolling images very much.

"It's in 3D!" John says excitedly, passing Dave a ticket.

"That gimmicky thing?" Dave can only sort of remember 3D movies. He wonders where the blue and red paper glasses are. Maybe they hand them out during the movie, he thinks.

"It's not gimmicky! It's cool!" John replies. "It adds a whole other dimension!"  
>"A third dimension."<p>

"Exactly!"

Dave can't really tell whether John is joking or not, so he stays quiet. He tucks the ticket safely into his pocket and waits for John to give some sort of indication of what they were supposed to do next. He thinks maybe they're supposed to look for the theatre, but John must know his way around, so he decides to let the other boy lead. He goes back to watching the commercials.

"Do you want some popcorn?" John asks, following Dave's gaze and mistakenly assuming he's reading the snack deals.

"No," Dave says. What he wants is irrelevant. Snacks cost money—too much money—and John is already paying for his ticket.

"Come on. I'll get a large and we can share."

Before Dave can argue, John slips into the crowd. Defeated, Dave's attention turns to the various movie paraphernalia decorating the theatre lobby. He wonders what decorations belong to which movies. Considering he hasn't seen a commercial in at least seven years, let alone a movie, he gives up his guessing game quickly.

"Are you ready?" John has reappeared at his side, holding a bag of popcorn that, in his hands, looks comically large.

"Yeah."

"Can you take these?" John twitches his arm as an indication and Dave notices the two bottles of soda tucked in the crook of his elbow, pressed tightly against his chest so as not to fall.

"Yeah." Dave pulls the bottles out and they make their way to theatre seven. They juggle snacks for a minute, squirming to retrieve their tickets, and then make their way up the escalator.

"This is going to be great," says John. "I heard that Morgan Freeman has a cameo in this."

Dave doesn't know who Morgan Freeman is, really. He remembers something about a voice, but that's it.

The two make their way up the stairs and down the row. John grins.

"Score! Perfect center," he says.

Dave looks around the theatre. "It seems pretty empty."

"Yeah, well, what did you expect on a Tuesday afternoon? It's not really prime movie time now."

Something in Dave's mind clicks. "Don't you have class now?"

John grins. "Oops, busted. I'm skipping."

There is a tense moment where Dave is sure he's going to hit John. The impulse fades, however, and he sits back. He reminds himself that John is an adult and that this is his life and that Dave really has no business saying anything. It still annoys him, though. He hates frivolity.

Thankfully, Dave is spared trying to make conversation by the dimming of the lights and the start of the previews. John comments on a few of the movies, but eventually he falls silent, munching on the occasional piece of popcorn. Dave gets over his reservations fairly quickly and takes a handful himself; it is, after all, free food.

As the movie progressed, Dave realized he did recognize a few of the actors, though he didn't know their names. He assumed they were the ones John had mentioned, though. It was the only logical conclusion.

"Wasn't that a great movie?" John asked as the credits rolled. He seemed to be positively glowing; the kid must have really enjoyed it.

"Yeah."

"I loved the part where Keanu stole the map. That was great."

There was a part like that? "Yeah."

A shadow of concern passes over John's face. "Dave, are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Come on. Let's see if we can get a free refill on this popcorn. Then we'll have something to snack on later." John stands up and rolls the top of the bag down, then picks up his empty soda bottle.

"'Later'?" Dave repeats.

"Yeah, of course." John pauses. "Unless you don't want to hang out more?"

Dave gives a noncommittal shrug. He still can't be sure what's going on. He knows one thing, though, and that's that he can't let himself get too close. This isn't his John. His John died a long, long time ago.

"Dave?"

"Fine, whatever." Dave finds himself suddenly annoyed. This _isn't_ his John. Why is he trying to act like he is? Like nothing has happened?

"Good. Come on!" John wraps his buttery fingers around Dave's wrist and pulls him down the aisle. It's all Dave can do to keep from breaking the grip and taking off in the other direction. His stomach gives an unpleasant turn, but he manages to force himself to follow John, letting his arm dangle limp in the other boy's clutch.

If Dave is grateful for one thing, it's that John doesn't force conversation as they refill the popcorn and go out to the parking lot. John unlocks the car and Dave slides into the front seat, taking the bag of popcorn and setting it on his lap as John adjusts the mirrors. The ride back to John's house is short, but that doesn't make Dave feel any less awkward.

They traipse back into the house and pull off their shoes on the front landing.

"I'll put your clothes in the dryer," John says, breaking the silence that had accumulated between them.

"Sure."

"Do you want to wait in my room? We could watch another movie or play a game or something."

Dave hesitates. He doesn't really want to be here. He really _shouldn't _be here. He had only come to check on John, he thinks, after Rose's stories. This wasn't his John, but it was her John, and if he made her happy… Well, he's worth some attention, Dave supposes. But that doesn't mean it's okay for Dave to be standing here, in John's living room, acting as a placeholder for a friend that John already has.

"Dave?" John is looking at him again, eyebrows creased, unsure. Dave succumbs.

"Yeah, sure. Fine."


	8. Why?

"Do you want a beer?"

Dave stares at John, almost baffled by the question. "What." What he meant to say was _why_, really, but it came out as _what_ because that's just how he reacts to things.

"A beer," John repeats. "You know…like drinking?"

"I know what beer is," Dave says. "Yeah, sure. Fine. Wait, aren't you under the legal limit? How old are you?"

John shrugs. "It's ok. It's just one. It's not like we're going to get drunk and run rampant in the streets or anything." He chuckles.

"Is your dad okay with it?"

John raises an eyebrow, almost amused. "Is this concern from a Strider I'm hearing?"

"Don't be a dick. He's your dad. Fucking listen to him."

Frowning slightly, John shrugs. "He's okay with it, Dave. He knows I'm responsible, even when he's on business trips. I'm not really a party guy, anyway."

Dave doesn't need to follow John's gaze to know that he's really saying _I'm not in any condition to party._ He relents. "Yeah, fine. Beer it is."

John gives a little grin and then heads down the stairs. He reappears moments later, two cold bottles in his hands, still frothing from the recent opening. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

Dave shrugs. "Your call."

"D'you…do you want to just talk a while?"

"Yeah, fine. Whatever."

John sits down on the bed beside Dave, stretching out his long legs. "Cheers, buddy." Dave holds out his bottle to clink against John's, but his heart burns cold with the comment. They aren't friends. This isn't his John, and he isn't John's Dave.

Having never had the chance to try, Dave decides to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He takes a deep swig of beer and chokes on it. He coughs and splutters until it's painful, and John rubs his back, confused and concerned.

"Hey, hey." Dave is vaguely aware that John is speaking, but it's difficult to discern the words because now his head hurts. "It's alright. Did it go down the wrong way?"

"No," Dave coughs. "Fuck."

Finally, the fit dies down and Dave leans back against the pillows, exhausted. He can feel John's eyes on him, probably filled with worry, but he doesn't care. All he can think is that maybe trying to down the bottle was a bad idea. He wonders how other people can do it.

"Feeling better?" John asks at length.

"Fuck," says Dave. "What kind of demon brew did you just fucking feed me." Dave has long since discarded his previous pretence of cool, but sometimes the quirks from the past caught up with him. Quirks like monotone questions and expressionless faces. Though the latter served him well, the former only made it harder for him to be understood.

John, however, understood. Of _course_ he did. He was friends with his fair-haired doppelganger, wasn't he? The rat bastard.

John is trying to stifle a chuckle now. "What do you mean? That's the normal stuff." He pauses, suddenly grinning. "Dave…that wasn't your first beer, was it?"

"Fuck you," says Dave.

"Oh my god. Really? That's so…innocent." He starts to laugh and Dave glares at him from beneath his shades.

"I haven't really had the chance," Dave says icily. "Booze is a hot commodity on the tracks and it's safer to sell than buy."

John stops laughing and looks over. "You're…you're really a hobo, then, aren't you?"

"As homeless as they come," Dave replies.

John hesitates, thinking. Dave knows what's coming. It always comes. "Dave…"

"No."

"Just hear me out."

"No."

"Just shut up for a moment, you dick. Look, I don't really know how it works, but it must be really hard living on the streets. If…if you need a place to stay, I think—"

"No."

"I think Dad would be okay with letting you stay here," John finishes, determined. "At least for a little while."

Wasting no time in reply, Dave firmly says, "No."

"Dave! Dammit, you're impossible."

"Damned right I am," Dave replies. "You're finally getting it."

They sink into silence, Dave staring at the ceiling and John drinking his beer. Eventually, Dave builds up the courage to try another sip. It's not as bad this time, when he takes it slow and lets his mouth get used to it. It still tastes like shit to him, but it's not as bad as he had expected. Halfway through the bottle, he begins to get a faint buzzing sensation in his limbs.

_Maybe I'm drunk,_ he thinks.

_Maybe you're a fucking idiot, _he thinks again. _You've barely had any._

But the sensation doesn't fade and Dave decides he enjoys it. It's better than the prickling, at any rate, and he feels a little calmer. Or maybe he just feels sleepy.

"Dave?"

"Yeah?" Dave turns to John, who is looking out the window.

"I'm sorry I called you Davesprite before."

Dave gives an indifferent shrug. "Whatever. It's what I am."

"No. You're Dave," John says gently.

"Maybe. But I'm not 'Real Dave'."

"Fuck! Look, Dave, I'm sorry I ever said that. I was a kid and I was stupid. You're Dave."

"I'm not _your_ Dave, so it doesn't matter. Look, John. I get it. I don't care." Dave drinks more beer, hoping it will help. It doesn't. He drinks some more. Then he drinks the rest of the bottle. He's ready for it this time, and he doesn't choke.

"Yeah, I… No. Don't think like that. You can be my Dave, too. You're different people. Different Daves."

"Except we're not."

"Of course you are! You have different experiences, don't you?"

"Yeah. The other one isn't a goddamn dirty hobo."

"Dave," John groans. "You're not listening."

"No," says Dave. "I don't think _you're_ listening. This isn't my world. That isn't my house, that isn't my brother and you aren't my friend."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the slight tremble in John's hand. The dark haired boy sets his beer on the floor and sighs, then reaches over and pulls Dave into a forceful hug.

For several seconds, Dave is lost in a sensory overload of panic and repulsion. He doesn't want to be touched by this John, comforted by the little asshole that caused him to be stuck here. He's angry that he's alive and he's annoyed that John is here. He's annoyed at John. He's annoyed at John for… His head is buzzing loudly now and he's not really sure why he's annoyed at John. Something happened, and then…

Oh, of course.

Out of nowhere, Dave grabs John's shirt and buries his face in the boy's chest. "Why did you die?" he mutters.

"What?" John asks. Dave's voice had been too low, too quiet, too broken. He hadn't heard. All John knows is that one minute Dave was frozen in place, looking terrified, and the next he was clinging to his shirt like a baby.

"Why did you die?" Dave says again, louder this time. "Why did you… You stupid fucker. Why the fuck did you listen… You…"

John's eyes widen, then soften. "It's alright, Dave."

"You…asshole…" Dave sobs. He hasn't cried for so long. He hasn't cried since… He can't even remember. It's been years. More than years. It can't have been since…

Since John had died. And Jade. And he had made the decision—no, been forced to make the decision—to go back. To set it all right.

In the back of Dave's mind, there is a space clear of his delusion. He knows that this isn't his John. He knows that crying into his chest won't do anything to bring his John back. His friends.

But that doesn't matter.

Dave is so lost and alone that anything can tip him over the edge now. He sobs again, alternately yelling at John for dying and then asking him why, his voice breaking every time. Why did you die? Why did you die?

_Why did you die?_

John just sits there and takes it, probably saying comforting things that Dave can't make out and then stroking his hair. Dave is a little bird, and John is the proud owner, patting his prize on the head, ready to offer him little pellet snacks. Dave knows this is ridiculous but he's tired and he's pretty sure he's drunk and he's cried so much that his eyes feel sore and his shoulders can't stop shaking.

He's cried himself out, now, though, and he slumps against John, exhausted. He's only vaguely aware of John gently pushing him away and then into the bed, throwing a cover over him, crawling beside. He's so tired that he doesn't notice how nice it feels to be in a bed after so many nights on the ground, or on park benches, or even in toppled cardboard boxes. He doesn't notice when John's breathing slows and becomes rhythmic, in and out, in and out.

He doesn't notice when the blessed darkness takes over and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.


	9. Berries

Dave's eyelids flutter and he is slowly pulled back to consciousness. He hasn't slept long, but then, he never does. It seems this time he managed to sleep at least an extra hour or two, so he counts it as a small victory.

John is still asleep beside him, one spindly arm stretched over Dave. This makes Dave panic, but he knows that if he acts on it, he will wake the boy. No, this situation requires stealth.

Almost painfully slowly, Dave slips under the covers and down the length of the bed until his feet find purchase on the floor. Then, he crawls out, careful not to disturb the duvet more than necessary. He tiptoes out of the room, trying to distribute his weight so that the floor doesn't creak beneath him. Soon, he is out of the room and padding softly down the hall.

Before Dave can leave, he has to find his clothes. This is an imperative. He won't be strong enough without them, or at least he thinks so. It takes him a few tries to find the laundry room, but when he does, he spots his clothes folded neatly in a basket on the washing machine. Without bothering to shut the door, he strips, then pulls on his old garments. It doesn't matter if anyone sees him, really. He won't be there much longer.

As an act of final courtesy, something he rarely partakes in, Dave tosses the borrowed clothes back into the basket. Then, he slips from the room and back down the hall to the door. He is in the act of pulling on his shoes when he hears the telltale creak at the top of the stares.

"Dave…?"

Fuck.

A thousand other expletives race through Dave's mind. Is he wearing a goddamn bell or something? Why do they find him every time? If it were Bro, sure, _maybe_ he could see them catching him in the act. But goddamn fucking John Egbert? How?

"Are you leaving?" Unlike Rose, John doesn't bother to mask the hurt on his face. He's pulling a puppy-dog pout but for him, it's genuine. He's only half-awake, with his hair sticking up comically and his eyes still bleary.

"I…I'm sorry," says Dave. He isn't, but he says it anyway. He knows it's what he _should_ say.

John looks at him for a minute, then smiles a little. "Okay. Bye, Dave."

Dave flinches. Sadness, hurt, suffering—those are all things he can stand. He sees them every day, really. He's grown used to them. But a fucking _smile_? In a situation like this? In an instant, his own will dissolves and he finds himself muttering an excuse.

"I'm just going for a walk," he says. "I'll be back."

John doesn't believe him. It's clear that he doesn't. But all the kid does is smile his little smile and then say, "Sure."

With that, Dave books it out of the house and into the fresh morning air. It's chilly, but tolerable. He turns down an arbitrary direction and keeps walking until his legs become too stiff to function. He sits down on the sidewalk, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his pale arms around his legs. He buries his face in his lap, trying to fight the inevitable shivering.

He knows he's going back.

It's not something he can fight. Not like that. He's bad at fighting, anyway. He's grown sick of it. He just doesn't have the will anymore, the stamina. The only problem is, he has to.

He can't let himself grow accustomed to this. He had promised that so many years earlier, back in the beginning, back when he woke up who-knows-where and realized he hadn't simply faded away. He was here. Unwilling, but here.

And unable to disappear.

Dave squeezes his legs closer and his rubber soles crunch against the grit of the pavement. The wind is starting to pick up and he pretends it's his John coming to say hello. The conversation they have in his mind is of little consequence, but it helps to soothe him. He feels less guilt.

Eventually, Dave stands. His limbs are sore from staying so still for so long, but if he's going to make it back—which he knows he will—he can't stop moving.

On the way back, Dave spots a few bushes of berries and picks some. It's a habit he developed years earlier, to collect food while it's there. He knows that John will feed him if he comes back, but it's hard to pass up. Maybe he'll show John the berries and tell him a few stories. That was how it worked in his world, stories for food. He wasn't great at telling stories at first, but at some point he realized it was a little bit like rapping, just without the beat and with a different rhythm. Then he started to get better. The food got better, too. He learned to tweak his words for maximum sympathy. That got even better food.

But then, John would probably give him decent food regardless of what he said. Hell, he probably wouldn't have to say anything at all if he didn't want to. The kid was just like that. He may be taller now, but he was still the same Egbert.

Just…different.

Not his.

Dave's stomach turns with guilt. He doesn't want to dwell on it, but he knows why. He feels like he's cheating on his John, on the memory of his friend. If he pretended that this John was his, like last night, well… It felt better, but it also repulsed him more. The guilt was stronger. These Johns were separate Johns.

Dave promised himself that he'd only stay the day. Any longer would be too much. He'd find a way to break it to the kid and then walk out the door, never see him again. If he did that, he'd have nothing to replace the memory of his John. There would be no confusion, no drunken outbursts.

Suddenly, Dave realizes he's overshot and has to turn around to go back to the green pogo ride. It's the only way he can tell which house is John's—they all look the same. He wonders if John is back in bed already. Probably. So, tucking the berries safely into his pocket, he does the only thing he can think of.

He climbs the tree.

Dave scales it easily, because heights are nothing to him. This is his environment, and it's saved his ass more times than he can count. He pauses, standing on a branch, wondering how he should proceed. Without much more thought, he walks along the branch like a tightrope, stopping at the point he knows can't support his weight any longer, and jumps. He catches the edge of the roof expertly, then swings his body so that his feet rest on the window ledge for John's room.

He taps the windowpane with his toe.

And again.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, ta—

"Holy shit, Dave!"

The window opens.

"Move over," Dave instructs.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asks.

"Coming in. Move or I'm doing it anyway."

John moves obediently, and Dave swings a little, building momentum. He lets go of the roof with perfect timing and shoots into the room. He lands in a ball, then stands up and pulls the window shut.

"I didn't think you were coming back," John says.

"I know." Dave reaches into his pocket and pulls out the berries. They're a little squished, but none have burst.

"We have food," John says.

Dave shrugs and pops one into his mouth. "Just a little supplemental nour—" But as he bites down, the flavour on his tongue is all wrong and he runs to the garbage can, spitting out as much as he can. "No, these are bad. These are definitely bad. Definitely poisonous. Don't eat these." When he's finished hovering over the garbage can, he tosses the rest of the berries away, almost disappointed. He turns back to John.

"Are you okay?" John asks, uncertain, looking halfway between concerned and amused.

"Yeah. I've done worse," Dave replies. And he has.

"I guess you do a lot of dangerous stuff, huh?"

Dave shrugs. "Yeah. I guess so. I don't really think about it."  
>"Well, I mean, train hopping is supposed to be really dangerous, right? That's what you do, isn't it?"<p>

"Yeah."

"You've…you haven't gotten hurt, have you?"

Dave shakes his head. "Nah. Guess I'm just too good at it."

"Be careful, alright?" John knows Dave won't be staying. He proved that this morning.

"Sure." He gives a sharp nod.

"D'you want some breakfast? I promise it won't have poisonous berries."

Dave snorts. "Sure."


	10. Placeholder

"You sure like pancakes, huh?"

Dave looks up from the plate, half a pancake still crammed in his cheek. He chews quickly and swallows. "It doesn't really make a difference. Food is food."

"Yeah…I guess so." John turns back to his own pancake, still working at it, chewing thoroughly.

"I mean, it's good," Dave finds himself saying.

"You don't have to compliment me, Dave."

So he doesn't. He just shrugs and goes back to carefully cramming himself to capacity. When he's done, he leans back, patting his stomach contentedly. "Thanks."

"No problem."

When John finally gets up to clear the dishes, Dave goes into the living room. He's fascinated by all of John's things, the little indicators of his life and his family. He spots the odd harlequin once and a while, something he had missed last night. Maybe his father hadn't gotten rid of them outright and opted to make them a little more inconspicuous instead.

John follows Dave into the room and, without turning to look at him, Dave asks, "Where is your dad, anyway?"

"Business trip."

Dave glances at the boy. "Does he do it a lot?"

"Sometimes."

"Dick," Dave says, going back to studying the old family photos.

"Dave!" John exclaims, suddenly angry. "He's not! He's been really good about…about this whole thing."

"He's not here, is he?"

"He can't always be here!"

Dave knows he's getting into dangerous territory here. He doesn't particularly care, but as John's been pretty good to him so far, he's willing to make a bit of an effort. "Yeah. Sorry."

John slumps down on the couch. "Whatever," he says at length.

"Does it get lonely?"

"What?"

"When he leaves."

"Of course it does." John still sounds annoyed and Dave wonders why he still can't bring himself to care.

"I can relate."

At this, John softens again. "Yeah…"

"Is there anyone who takes care of you while he's gone?"

"I can take care of myself."

"_Can_ you?"

John falters, then says quietly, "…no."

"I thought so."

"Rose comes over sometimes…and Dave… Jade doesn't as much, but when she does, we usually all get together."

Dave's stomach tightens at the mention of the doppelganger and his girlfriend. "Good."

"I…I'm seeing a doctor now, too."

"Yeah?" Dave looks at him and it's John's turn to wince uncomfortably.

"Yeah."

"Good."

"I…I'm trying to get better, Dave. I don't want to be like this."

"No one does."

"When's your dad coming home?"

"Soon."

"He'll take care of you."

"I _know_ that, Dave!"

Dave straightens up. "What do you want me to say? I'm not exactly involved in this little circle of yours. Generics are all I've got for you."

"Let's just talk about something else. Okay?"

"Sure."

"Do you want to watch a movie?"

"Fine."

So John gets up and grabs a movie and puts it on. It's a senseless and poorly planned film, but it's got lots of action and strange characters, so at least John enjoys it. On the other hand, the tall boy is much too close for Dave's comfort. John hugs Dave's arm to his chest, watching the movie intently, assumedly trying to put their previous conversation to the back of his mind. Dave doesn't work like that, though, and all he wants to do is pull away. He suddenly feels trapped here and John isn't helping. This isn't right. He feels like he's made a mistake.

"I should get going," Dave says suddenly.

"What? But the movie isn't even over." John breaks his eye contact with the screen to look at Dave.

"Yeah."

"Dave, are you okay?"  
>"I'm fine."<p>

"Are you sure?" John's blue eyes are boring into his face. To break the gaze, Dave pulls off his shades and cleans them on his shirt, focussing his attention there instead. It's hard to move with John's arms still wrapped around his elbow, but he manages. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Not any more than I did." Dave glances back at John and the boy raises his eyebrows slightly. If he's surprised at the colour of his eyes, he doesn't say anything. Dave doesn't care.

"Tell me."

"Look. I know I fucked up last night, but you're not my John."

"I know."

"And I'm not your Dave."

"I told you, you—"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm your Dave, just a 'different' Dave. John, that means the same fucking thing and you know it. Don't try to bullshit me, we both know that your Dave is the one off partying his ass off in college."

"…Alright."

"I know we're similar," says Dave. "But I'm not going to be his replacement."

"What?"

"He's not here, right? So you're using me to fill in for him."

"Dave, I'm not!"

"It's fine. I don't care." Dave pauses. "Well, it's not like I like it, but I get it. I'm sure you miss your little buddy."

"Dave, it's not like that."

"It's okay. I get it."

"Dave, listen to me! It's not like that! I'm not using you like some kind of replacement!"

"Well, I am." The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"You…you are?"

"I have to go." Dave stands up quickly but John pulls him back onto the couch.

"No, explain. You're…you're using me?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Oh…" John trails off, as though he's thinking. "Well, that's okay."

"No, it isn't," Dave growls angrily. "It's not okay because you're not him and he's not you and _neither of you fucking deserve that_."

"It's okay, Dave."

"It's not."

"I'm telling you, it is."

"Yeah, it is for _you_!" Dave snaps. "Because even if you pretend that I'm your precious little Dave, you don't have to worry. You have another one! You're not going to forget him because _he's still alive_! I don't have that luxury!" Dave's voice breaks mid-sentence and his body is suddenly wracked with sobs. He hates himself for it, but it's harder to draw breath and he's panicking.

John pulls his arms away and puts a hand on Dave's shoulder. "Hey. It's alright, Dave. You won't forget him. I don't think you can."

"I don't care what you think!"

John doesn't leave. He just sits there, rubbing Dave's shoulder and telling him that it's okay. It's not okay. It's really not.

"Stop," Dave says at last, shrugging John's hand away.

"Okay," says John. "Are you still going to leave?"

"…yeah."

"Oh."

"I'll…I'll come back."  
>"Yeah?" John's voice raises a little, but he doesn't want to sound too helpful. He doesn't want to push it.<p>

"Yeah. Not for a while. But I'll see you again."

John throws his arms around the ginger boy and squeezes him tightly. "Thanks, Dave. Be careful, alright?" To Dave's relief, he lets go quickly.

"Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen to me."

"I'm going to worry, Dave. We're friends."

This makes Dave uncomfortable, but he brushes it off. "Yeah. But don't worry too much. I'll be fine. I've gotten pretty used to this whole thing."

"Okay, but if you get arrested, call me, okay?"

Dave snorts. "Yeah, sure. If they can catch me."

John gives him a sheepish little grin. "Yeah. Bye, Dave."

"Bye."


	11. Well Excuse Me Princess

The feel of pavement under his feet is a comfort for Dave after so many nights spent in the forest. As much as he loves trees, he had grown up in the busy city and the grimy cement would always be a part of him. It's getting easier to navigate the streets, which for Dave is always a warning sign. If he ran into his other self here, there'd be nowhere to hide, no trees to scale.

For now, though, he knows he's far enough from his once home to straddle the line between carelessness and concern. Besides, from what little Rose had said before, he's gleaned that his doppelganger is off at college somewhere, working on his sick beats. Dave misses music, but it's a luxury and something he can't afford to stick with. All the same, he sometimes finds himself humming old songs when scavenging for food, his voice a little toneless from discontinued practice.

At any rate, he's back in Texas. He could allow himself to play the voyeur a little longer, perhaps. He could visit all his old haunts—from a distance, of course—and see how all his once acquaintances were doing.

Dave rejects the thought the moment he's finished it. That was a stupid idea. It's not something he can allow himself to do. If he's going to make it through this shitty life to the end, he's going to have to start from scratch. Old routines are nothing but trouble. They aren't his life anymore.

The familiar jingle of a shop door plays. "Are you sure you don't want help?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks, bro."

A shiver runs down the length of Dave's body and he gives a faint squeak of shock. He claps his hands to his mouth, but the damage has been done. Pointed specs rise from the surveying of equipment to meet his own tinted gaze and he knows that he's been spotted.

"Hey," says Bro.

Dave is frozen in place, his mind refusing to process what had just happened. Bro's here, of _course_ Bro is here, because Bro lives in that same old house and didn't run off to college. Dave knows why he recognized the streets now, it's not where he used to frequent but it sure is hell where Bro would go. That's why he forgot and why he should have remembered, all at once.

That kicks Dave's mind back to reality and it goes into overdrive. Dave turns on his heel and begins sprinting down the street as fast as he can. A careful glance behind tells him that Bro is following and his stomach clenches. He pushes himself harder, faster, until he's ready and he flashes forward. He had picked up flashstepping back at the beginning, out of necessity. He had watched his brother enough times to be able to work back and figure the process out in post. It had come in handy more than a thousand times since then, the perfect aid for everyday life. As long as he wasn't too tired, he had been able to use it for an endless list of uses: train hopping, hiding, running from police, stealing…

Dave risks another risk behind and nearly gives another squeak. Bro's closer now, flashing longer distances than he himself can manage. Of course. Of course. Bro was better, Bro was obviously better, he'd been doing it longer. Dave didn't need distance, he just needed speed, he had never even considered distance. Of course.

That didn't stop Dave from trying, though. He put on another burst of speed, his muscles starting to ache with tension. He couldn't keep this up much longer, he'd have to stop, to hide somewhere. But where? They must have run halfway across the city by now, but he was still trapped in towering walls of concrete.

Dave feels Bro catch a handful of shirt and scarf and he chokes, his world spinning at the sudden stop. He only stumbles forward a few steps before strong hands hoist him into the air and slam him against a concrete wall, pinning him there, tearing the glasses from his face. Dave gasps for air, completely winded, sudden light and colours swirling in front of him…

And then everything is steady. Bro is studying his face and Dave can just make out the eyes beneath the shades. He's concentrating hard.

"Dave?" Bro says. If he's unsure of himself, he masks it well.

"Hi," is all Dave can think to say. And then, "Let go."

"Are you going to run?"

"No."

Bro releases him and he falls to the pavement, his legs shaking and wobbly. He straightens up to look at his brother for a few moments, then spins around and lunges in the opposite direction, doing his best to make a break for it. He knows he's going to fail, but he might as well try.

Almost on cue, Bro's fingers wind tightly around Dave's arms and throw him back against the building, pinning him for a second time.

"I think you just revoked your freedom," Bro says.

Dave shrugs, or tries to under the pressure of Bro's grip. "I had to try."

"Where have you been?"

Dave is still struggling to free himself, but he's small and weak and tired. He can't compete with Bro, well-fed and tall and muscular. There's no competition.

"Around," says Dave.

Bro shoves him against the wall harder and Dave chokes. He can feel the bruises starting to form on his arms. "Where have you been?" he repeats.

"Around," Dave says again. "Everywhere. Nowhere."

To Dave's surprise, Bro lets go of him entirely. He crashes to the ground this time, not even able to fake a semblance of grace. He just lies there, sprawled on the ground. It doesn't matter anymore. He's failed and he's too weak to fight.

Bro just sits down beside him, keeping a warning hand on his arm. It's pointless now. Dave couldn't run if he wanted to. He thinks Bro realizes that, but he also knows his brother can be pretty damn eccentric.

"Why didn't you visit?"

"What did you want me to do," Dave breathes. "Just come home all like, oh, by the way, you've got another mouth to feed now. Look, there are two of us."  
>"That's exactly what you should have done," Bro replies.<p>

"Fuck no."

"Why not?"

"Does it fucking matter."

"I wouldn't be asking you if it didn't, fucknuts."

"I shouldn't be here."

"What, in Texas? It's too late for that, bro."

"Here. Alive."

Bro watches him behind his pointy shades for a while, but Dave doesn't care. The concrete is uncomfortable as hell but he's lying down and that's all he needs. He thinks about all the precious calories he wasted during the chase. His eyes are closed now and he focuses on his breathing.

He almost didn't notice when Bro pulled his hand away, but the tug of the leather on his bare skin alerted him. Maybe Bro had given up. That was for the best. They had met. That was enough.

"Come on, princess," Bro mumbles. He slides his hands under Dave's knees and shoulders and Dave's eyes snap open.

"No." Dave tries to struggle, jamming his palm in Bro's face and trying to push him away.

"Jesus, you little prick. Stop that." Bro gives him a shake and he freezes, every instinct telling him that he's going to fall. But he doesn't. Bro just starts walking down the street, back the way they'd come.

"Where are we going?" Dave has wasted the last of his energy now and he resigns himself to whatever fate he's been given.

"I would have thought that'd be obvious, given the circumstance."

"Tell me."

Bro glances down. "Home." Dave's heart plummets at the word.

"Oh."


	12. The Naked Eye

Dave tries to ignore the vibrations of the car beneath him as the taxi speeds down the street. His head bounces against the window, but he leans against it regardless, pretending to sleep. Bro isn't making much conversation, thankfully, and the driver is too preoccupied with the scores for whatever latest sports game has presumably just taken place.

The back seat is tightly packed with the previously forgotten sound equipment. He isn't entirely sure, but Dave thinks that this might have just been another precaution on Bro's part. Maybe if he's trapped between a rickety door and a mountain of tech, he won't try to run.

Normally, Bro would be wrong. Dave has no reservations about unbuckling his belt and throwing himself out onto the street. He decides it wouldn't be too different from jumping trains, really. Tuck and roll and try not to hit anything. Or be hit by anything, he adds, since streets tend to have the concern of additional moving vehicles.

Today is different, though. Dave is tired. He doesn't have enough stamina to welcome the possibility of injury. And really, he knows that if he were to jump out, Bro would chase him anyway. Escape just isn't an option.

So he goes back to leaning against the side of the car, being jostled and bruised as the ride progresses. He just wants to get it over with.

The taxi finally turns into the parking lot of the apartment complex and Bro begins to haul equipment out of the car, leaving the pieces closest to Dave for last. He stacks them on a cart and finally turns his attention to Dave.

Dave is still pretending to sleep. He knows it won't be very effective—Bro still has his shades somewhere, and it's hard to fake sleep when your eyes are uncovered.

"Come on," Bro says, unconcerned. "It's no use keeping up that stupid charade; I know fully well that you're awake." He doesn't sound angry, though. He doesn't even sound annoyed.

Dave sits up and undoes his seatbelt, then slowly pushes the door open and crawls out. Bro pays the taxi driver and gestures for Dave to come over. He does so hesitantly, but Bro offers no further signs of wanting to trap him. And why should he? Bro's already got him this far—a few floors won't make much of a difference now.

Dave drags his feet as Bro pushes the cart, careful to avoid any poorly managed holes in the concrete. It's been years since Dave has been here, but he feels like it was just yesterday he was walking to the elevator. Soon they'd get to their level and walk down the hall and Bro would open the door.

"Come on," Bro says again.

Dave nods but doesn't say anything. He shuffles along beside his brother and they manage to squeeze into the elevator beside the cart. Bro reaches around him and presses the button for their floor, then leans back.

For a split second, Dave imagines darting back out of the elevator as the doors close, as if he were in a shitty action flick. But his legs won't move and so he's forced to watch his last hope slide out of view, replaced by the scuffed metallic doors.

"You'd better get on those ablutions when we get there, kid," says Bro. "You look like a couple of morlocks got it on in a mud pit."

"I'm a goddamn hobo, what did you expect."

"For you not to look like one. You're still a Strider, aren't you? I'm not going to accept anything but sheer fucking _royalty_." The door slides open and Bro nudges Dave out. "Well, whatever. I guess it's my job to fix you up, anyway."

"It's not your job to do anything."

"I disrespectfully disagree. Now get moving." Bro gives Dave another nudge, firmer this time, and the boy stumbles. He tries to stay ahead of Bro, but his legs still feel like jelly and he's having a hard time balancing. He puts a hand on the handle of the cart to steady himself, but Bro doesn't mention it.

They stop at the familiar apartment door and Dave finds he doesn't have the urge to run. Maybe his mind has finally caught up with his body and knows that stressing himself out will only make him more useless. He follows his brother into the apartment and finds himself immobile with shock for a moment. Everything is exactly as he remembers it, right down to the scratches on the walls and the high end television on the back wall.

Once the nostalgia goggles fade, Dave realizes that there are some differences. Some of the tech has changed, been upgraded, and there are a few new gadgets around. There are fewer puppets, too. Dave wonders if Bro moved them when his doppelganger left for college. Lil Cal is still there, though, sitting on one of the computer monitors, glassy eyes as disconcerting as ever.

"Go wash away the filth," Bro says. "I'll see if I can find your skinny ass some clothes."

Bro starts towards Dave's old bedroom and Dave has a minor panic attack. He grabs Bro's arm. "No! Don't give me any of his stuff!"

Bro cocks an eyebrow, but he shrugs. "Sure."

"Promise me!"

"Yeah, yeah. I promise." He puts his hand on Dave's head briefly, then pulls away and heads for his own stack of clothes. "Towels are in the—"

"I know," says Dave. Without a second glance at Bro, he goes and grabs a handful of towels from a broken basket and goes to the small shower. He strips and washes, but the hot water makes his limbs feel weaker and he doesn't stay longer than he needs to. He towels off and opens the door a crack, peering out to see if Bro had left him any clothes. Dave finds a small stack of clothes and drags them into the bathroom, slamming the door shut as soon as the last sleeve is in. He eyes the garments suspiciously, but they don't look like they belong to his doppelganger.

In fact, he's not entirely sure _who_ they belong to. But the shirt is white and it has a little orange icon on it, so it's really a best case scenario for him. He slides on the fresh clothes and leaves the old ones discarded on the floor.

Once he's done changing, Dave steps back into the living room. Without looking up, Bro gestures for him to come and sit on the couch. Hesitantly, Dave obeys, and he crashes down on the worn black leather. Bro wraps a cautionary arm around his shoulders and he winces.

"Alright," Bro says at length. "Are you going to start explaining or am I going to have to coax it out of you?"

"I don't know what to say," Dave replies, and it's true. For some reason, he had never given Bro's finding him a thought. There had been no imagined scenarios—not like the ones with his friends, at least, where he would talk to them when he was exhausted and hurt and alone. Bro was this unreachable figure, physically and mentally, and he had never even considered the possibility of their meeting. To be honest, he didn't think Bro would have remembered him if the had.

And yet, somehow, Bro did.

"How about you begin with the reason why you didn't come say hello for seven years?"

"Has it been that long," Dave says dully. "It feels like longer."

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive, you little fuck?" Bro's voice is level, but for the first time Dave can hear a tinge of real feeling behind his words. And Bro is _pissed_.

Dave finds that he still doesn't care. He gives a half-hearted shrug and says, "It didn't seem like something I should do."

"'It didn't seem like something you should do'…?" Bro repeats. "Well, what the hell _did_ it seem like?"

Dave shrugs again. "There's a line. Going here would cross it."

"You're here now, aren't you?"

"That was an accident." Dave looks down at his feet. He doesn't want to look at Bro's face.

"Why didn't you ask for help?"

Dave pulls a smirk and he can't help but think his brother is surprised. "That's not what a cool guy would do."

"Dave." Bro's voice is cold and low and dead serious now. "That isn't fucking funny."

"No," says Dave, "it's not." But he wants to laugh. He doesn't know why but somehow it all seems so surreal that after seven years he's sitting on his couch in his apartment and it's all _wrong_.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"You aren't mine. Why does it matter?"

"It matters."

"Everyone keeps telling me that, but I don't think it does. You're _his_ bro, not mine. I shouldn't be your responsibility too."  
>"So we aren't bros anymore?"<p>

"Why would we be?"

For a while, there's silence, and Dave is suddenly afraid. His brother seems to be contemplating something and Dave feels there is a huge possibility that he's going to get hit. He's not sure why he feels this; Bro's barely moved a muscle. Maybe that's why—he's deathly still now.

"It seems to me," Bro says, "that the question shouldn't be 'why would we be', but rather, 'why _wouldn't_ we be'."

"How do you figure," Dave replies tonelessly.

"How old are you?" Bro asks suddenly.

"I don't know," Dave responds. "How old is the other one."

"I'm not asking how old he is, I'm asking how old _you_ are."

"I don't know. A couple months older, probably."

Silence again. "We fought together, Dave."  
>"…yeah."<p>

"Even if you weren't my brother—if we didn't even know each other—that makes us bros." He looks down at Dave thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Nice eyes, little dude."

Dave glares back at him. "Fuck you. It's not my fault the game went all colour swap on my ass at the end."

"Nah, you've got me wrong." Bro shakes his head, a hint of a cool guy smile on his lips. "I'm really not making fun of you. Not yet, at any rate."

"Then what?"

Bro pushes his pointed shades up, taking his cap with them, and dangles both casually from his finger. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's a taste of nostalgia?"

Dave narrows his eyes. "Are you making fun of me? You put in coloured contacts while I showered, you prick. Don't think I don't know you had those when I was growing up."

Bro barks a laugh. "Yeah, I did that. I had to keep you guessing, didn't I? There's no game without the suspense." He looks down at his little brother again. "But you're wrong, lil bro. I tossed them out a year ago. The game ended. This is au natural."

"I…"

"Surprised?"

"Holy shit. Just…just holy shit." Dave slumps back on the couch, suddenly very confused. What the hell had just happened?

"You're welcome."


	13. Yelling at a Brick Wall

The first thing Dave notices upon awaking is that he is not alone. Immediately, his instincts tell him to run. Waking up with company is never a good sign.

But then the higher functioning parts of his brain start to wake up and he becomes aware of the warmth of the air and the feel of the leather beneath him. He opens his eyes, blinking in the new day.

Bro shifts beside him, still dead asleep, a warning arm still wrapped around Dave's back. If he tried to run now, he'd only wake Bro up. Dave doesn't want to instigate a strife right now, so he drops his head back against the squashed arm of the couch and closes his eyes. He tells himself that it's safe here, or at least safe from his typical threats. His problem is with the place and the people, yes, but at least both provide him with proper food and shelter. He can't say the same about the streets, which at times have proven to hold the worst of all four.

Dave opens his eyes again and studies Bro's face. It's different without the hat and the shades, but it's definitely the same man he fought with all those years ago. He looks a little older now, but he masks that well. Maybe lugging equipment around for shows makes up for the shitty diet he's sure Bro and his doppelganger have both maintained.

He looks at Bro's blonde hair, mussed from sleep, sticking out in strange directions. Dave glances at a stray strand of his own carroty hair and the pallet swap suddenly bothers him more than it ever had before. It's like the game is telling him that he's not real, that he's not Dave. It's making fun of him. _You're just a copy_, he hears. _You're not the real one._

It hurts.

Dave doesn't really agree, though. He never says it out loud but he thinks _he_ should be called real, with the other one regarded as a copy. He was there first, after all. He was older.

But Dave knew that wasn't true. He was a doomed timeline gone strangely wrong, more wrong than should have been possible. He could play the elder card all he wanted, but he knows that if he hadn't jumped into the sprite, he would've had his ass handed to him in a matter of minutes.

He feels a hand on the back of his head and a soft rumble of words from Bro. "You're like a fucking fuzzy little duckling, aren't you?"

"Peep," says Dave.

Bro snorts and sits up, stretching his back. "You gonna make a break for it today? Do I need to nail the door shut?"

Dave doesn't know what he'll do. "Don't you need to go to work?"

"Maybe I'll call in sick."

"You never call in sick."

"Maybe I'll just not show up and let them form their own conclusions."

"That's worse."

Bro shrugs. "Then I'll text them and say I'm at a family reunion."

"Go to work, asshole. Don't you have a college tuition you're footing the bill for?" The words slip from Dave's lips with an accompanying smirk. He doesn't mean to say them but he knows it's true.

Bro pauses. "You knew about that?"

"I know a lot of things." Dave tries to sound cryptic but he knows that Bro will figure him out. The man was a genius, after all—when it suited him.

Like clockwork, Bro says, "Which friends have you been seeing?"

"Why do you care?"

"Well, for one, you let them know you were alive before you even came to Texas—_by accident_, I might add."

"I've been to Texas before," Dave says. "I just fucked up this time."

"Oh, that makes it better."

Dave looks hard at Bro's face, but even without the shades it's a blank slate. His brother just stares at the black television screen, expression unreadable. Dave isn't entirely sure what the man is thinking, but he knows it's not very favourable.

"What's number two, then?" Dave asks. He knows that by all rights he should dread the answer, but he doesn't care. In fact, there is very little he cares about, and it suits him just fine.

"Have you been visiting the Harley girl?"

This throws Dave a little. "What?"

"Don't visit her."

Dave grits his teeth. "I fucking _know_ that, asshole. You think that's not the first thing I thought about when I came back? I'm not going to break your precious baby brother's perfect relationship, so you don't have to fucking protect him."

At this, Bro's eyes flick to Dave's face. "I wasn't trying to protect him, dipshit."

"Then what?" Dave snarls.

"I was trying to protect you." Bro sighs and stands up. "You hungry? There's some leftover pizza in the fridge."

But Dave doesn't want to let go. He's angry now, angry enough to keep at a pointless argument. "Are you going all soft on me?"

"Maybe," says Bro.

"Well, don't," says Dave. "I don't need it. I don't need anything. I don't need anyone."

"Aren't those just the most depressing words I've ever heard being said?" Bro calls from the kitchen, rifling for the bag of pizza trapped inside a rather menacing pile of swords.

But Bro's light indifference is just fuel to the fire. Dave stands up and follows him into the other room, watching as his brother carefully disarms the fridge. "I'm never going to see her. I'm never going to see her _or_ him again."

"Good," says Bro. "We're in agreement, then."

"You aren't even going to ask why?"  
>"No. You're a smart kid. I'm sure you've figured it out by now." Bro finally pulls the bag out and begins loading a plate with slices of pizza.<p>

Dave doesn't know how to reply to this. He's still angry, but he knows pushing this will be impossible. "I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity." Bro puts the whole stack in the microwave and sets it for longer than is probably safe.

"Of course it is. Don't bullshit me. You're just trying to play the good brother card, stroking your ego by pulling some kid that shouldn't be off of the street and force-feeding him shitty pizza."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Fuck you!" says Dave, now unable to form a coherent argument in his mind. He doesn't know why he's pissed, just that he _is_. Somewhere he knows that Bro has done nothing wrong, that he shouldn't be the one to bear the brunt the Dave's frustrations.

"Do you want to fight me?" Bro asks. It's an open invitation; he clearly doesn't care one way or another.

"Fuck you!" Dave says again, but he's losing his conviction now and it shows in his voice.

"You'll lose if you do," Bro warns.

"Fuck you." But Dave has given up now. He leans against the counter, head hung in shame. Bro pats him on the head and comes to stand beside him.

"I know it's hard, bro," he says, putting an arm around Dave's shoulders. "It's hard and no one understands."

"Fuck you."

"Good ducky." Bro gives Dave one more lingering pat on the head and returns to the microwave. "Now come eat some pizza while it's hot."

Dave knows he's lost.


	14. Wrong

Over the next few days, Dave begins to become a little more comfortable spending time with Bro. He never lets himself become _too_ comfortable, of course; the risk of his doppelganger seems to grow with each day. In the beginning, Bro would tell him that the other boy would typically give some indication he was coming home, or at least wait for a major holiday. These reminders become more and more infrequent as Bro realized that it did little to ease Dave's mind. Now, he gets none at all.

A day ago, they started marathoning a shitty old anime Bro used to watch with him. It's hard on the eyes for Dave now, but he tries his best to keep up. He suggested watching it in English in the beginning, but Bro had just scoffed at the sub par voice acting and told him to suck it up.

"I'm going to have a shower," Dave announces, halfway through a particularly violent robot fight.

"Sit your ass down," Bro replies, his eyes never moving from the screen. "It's a good part."

"No, man. I feel gross. The leather is sticking to me and it's nasty."

"Fine." Unwillingly, Bro presses the pause button. "Go to it, then. But you'd better come back right after. You've got to be properly educated sometime, bro."

"Yeah, yeah. There are some boobs and that guy with the red eyes and that kid who gets punched in the face. Am I schooled yet?" Dave replies dully. Bro snorts and ruffles Dave's hair. Dave winces, but he admits to himself that the familial affection is sort of nice.

Dave goes off to shower, grabbing a few clean clothes on the way. Since Dave had come, Bro had managed to pull together a few sets of clothes, though from where, Dave wasn't really sure. They fit him well enough, though, and there was a good amount of orange, so he didn't complain.

Once he's done washing, drying and dressing, Dave steps back out into the hall. The sun in Texas is warm and it filters into the room, magnified, filling it with a prickly heat in the afternoon. It doesn't really bother Dave—it's where he grew up, after all—but it does become irritating when he stays in the same place too long.

"How old is that bottle of conditioner," Dave asks, scratching his stomach beneath the sleeveless black shirt. "That's not the same one from when I was a kid, is it."

"We have conditioner?" Bro replies, his attention now off the still image on the screen and focused on Dave. "Is it growing moul…" But his voice trails off and he closes his mouth.

"I didn't exactly check," Dave replies. "I'm not on fungus patrol around here, thanks."

"Dave," says Bro seriously.

"Bro," says Dave, matching his tone.

"Lift up your shirt."

"You'll have to buy me dinner first," Dave replies.

"I'm not fucking around. Come here?"

For a moment, Dave doesn't understand what Bro's problem is. He can't imagine what bizarre turn of events could have caused his brother to pull a complete mood 180. He had come from the shower, commented on the poor state of the conditioner, scratched an itch…

He freezes.

Bro saw.

"It's nothing," Dave says quickly. "I just fell off a train a couple of years ago. Back when I was still getting used to it."

"Come here."

"No."

"Come here, Dave."

"I don't want to."

Dave knows what's coming before it happens. In a flash, Bro is standing in front of him, trying to pull the hem of the shirt up as Dave struggles.

"You know you're going to lose," Bro says.

"I'm allowed to try, aren't I?" Dave snaps back.

He does, of course, lose. Bro pulls the shirt up and looks at the scar on Dave's stomach, puckered and pale. The entire time he surveys the damage, Bro's face is expressionless. He doesn't move a muscle.

That's what tips Dave off, though. If Bro is trying that hard to keep a blank face, it means something's wrong.

"The other side?" Bro asks.

Dave doesn't need to clarify. "Yeah."

Bro leans around him and looks at the matching mark on Dave's back. He drops the shirt and Dave quickly smoothes it back down over his pants. He looks up at Bro, as if awaiting instructions. Nothing ever comes, though. Bro just runs a gloved hand through his hair, causing it to spike more, staring hard at anything that isn't Dave.

"It's fine," Dave hears himself reassuring. "It doesn't really hurt or anything. I mean, sometimes when it's really cold it feels weird, but I think that's just a skin thing and not, like, an important thing. I honestly forget it's even there—I mean, you saw that, so—"

"Shut up for a minute," Bro says. Dave stops babbling abruptly. He starts fiddling with the hem of the shirt now, anxious.

"Are you mad?" he asks quietly.

Finally, Bro looks down at him. "No. No, Dave, I'm not mad." He wraps his arms around his little brother and pulls him into a tight embrace. "I'm not mad."

Dave's body stiffens. Bro sounds different than usual. He sounds weird. He sounds _gentle_.

It makes Dave sick.

Growing up, Bro had never once been _gentle_. He could be kind and affectionate and strong, but he was never _gentle_. Bro was always, always, _always_ a rough kind of guy. It was how he showed he cared. That was it: either roughness or indifference. That was all. There was never anything in between.

"It's from the battle, right?" Bro breathes into his hair. A shiver runs down Dave's spine.

"It's from the sword," he replies. "You try having something torn from your gut and see how you fare. I think I got off pretty lightly." He wants Bro to yell at him, to laugh, to do _something_, anything, really. Anything that wasn't holding him softly and whispering into his ear.

"I'm sorry," says Bro.

"I don't care," says Dave. "I'm pretty sure you aren't the one that yanked it out of me."

"I'm sorry I died."

"Yeah, well, I was the piece of shit that didn't save you, wasn't I? Fair's fucking fair."

"It's not like that, Dave."

"I don't care."

"You did your best. I was cocky."

"I don't care."

"I put you in danger."

"Bro, I don't fucking _care_!" Dave snaps, shoving his brother away at last. "Jesus! You can have your pity party all by your fucking self, I don't give a damn. Just leave me out of it."

"I have to make a call," Bro says suddenly.

"Fine. Get the fuck out," Dave says. He watches warily as Bro flickers and vanishes from sight, evidently taking the call out in the hall.

Dave goes back to the couch and throws himself down, pissed at Bro for behaving like a child and pissed at himself for being so careless. Of _course_ Bro would freak out. Anyone would freak out. Dave was the weird one. He was the one that had just accepted it as just another one of the game's sadistic pranks.

It isn't even the worst one, really. It's just some marred skin. Sure, it could get uncomfortable at times—and did—but he considered it a superficial thing first and foremost.

Hell, Dave is just happy the game hadn't left him with a gaping hole where his organs should be.

Bro doesn't return for a while, but when he does, he's only gotten worse. He sits with his arm around Dave as they watch the rest of the episode, alternately glancing at the screen and then glancing at Dave. It drives Dave crazy and, by the end, he announces that he's tired and he's going to bed.

Bro is hesitant to accept this, but he nods and begins to set up.

"I want to sleep alone," Dave adds. "Too much heat feels bad. You know." He makes a vague gesture to his stomach and Bro nods again. Dave knows it was a stupid lie, but he needs to be away from Bro.

Desperately.

"Call me if you need anything, alright?" Bro says at length, smoothing Dave's hair back in a way that makes Dave's skin crawl.

"Yeah," Dave grunts. Bro nods once more, then vanishes.

Satisfied with how he handled the situation, Dave rolls over on the couch, pulling a blanket around him. After half an hour of tossing and turning, he finally drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

Dave wakes up early, as is his norm. The clock indicates that it's barely five, and Dave gives a little nod of appreciation. Sometimes the sleeplessness really did come in handy.

Before he stands, Dave glances around. Bro seems to still be asleep.

Dave pads across the floor to the bathroom, careful not to make a sound. It's easier here, though, because he knows the quirks of every floorboard. Once inside the little room, he pulls off the unknown clothes and puts on his own worn clothes. He wraps his scarf loose around his throat, grateful to have some added heat from the cold he knows is waiting outside. The apartment may be deceptively warm, but Dave has experienced this a hundred times before. He knows what to expect.

He briefly considers taking a sweater but decides it's not his style. He won't take more than he needs, and he certainly doesn't need to be indebted any deeper to Bro. Not now.

Dave slips back out of the bathroom and tiptoes across the floor to the front door. He unlocks it with a practiced, silent flick and sidles out into the apartment hall. The air is still. He glances around, surveying the scene, but Bro is still nowhere in sight.

Dave exhales a soundless breath of relief as he shuts the front door and locks it with the key he finds hidden behind a chipped placard reading the number of the apartment. He returns the key to its original place, takes one last look at his once home, and disappears into the elevator.

As the metal doors slide open and Dave takes off at a brisk pace down the street, he vows that he will never return.

He's lost his brother once already. He's not going to do it again.


	15. Chickie

The second time they meet, it's a complete coincidence.

That's what Dave tells himself, anyway, as he walks down the street, keeping the bobbing striped scarf in his view. He didn't _mean_ to end up here. It just happened. It wasn't like he knew her schedule, either. So really, it was a coincidence.

Following her, however, was slightly harder to justify.

_I'm just making sure she gets home alright_, Dave thinks. _I'll leave when she goes through the front door._

So Dave just keeps following her at a healthy distance, hands hung loosely in his pockets. He still garners stares in his brilliant neon attire, though when the weather's chilly he wonders if it's more about the lack of layers than the colour. The wind threatens to bite at his exposed skin, but the warmth of his blood beneath it does an adequate job at keeping him healthy. Not exactly comfortable, no, but he's alright. Only the skin on his stomach and back seems to tighten with the chill.

Up ahead, Rose is doing something strange. She stops suddenly and ducks into an alleyway. Dave stares in shock for a few seconds, then races after her. What is she thinking, going down an alleyway in the middle of fucking _New York_? Is she trying to get herself killed?

It's nearly too late when Dave sees the can raised in her hand, finger poised over the trigger.

"Stop!" he shouts, throwing up his arms to cover his face.

Rose lowers the can slightly, eyes wide. Then, she glares. "Idiot," she snaps. "I nearly maced you!" Her tone states that he would have deserved it.

But Dave is in no mood to play. "Why were you going into an alleyway anyway?" Dave growls back.

"To mace you! Because you were following me!"

"That's the dumbest logic I've ever heard." Dave narrows his eyes behind his tinted shades. Darkened alleys are a danger for young girls if he's ever seen one. It's so cliché and wrong it almost hurts.

"Well, I can't do it in public," she replies. "I need to hide the body in that trash heap." Her eyes flick to the garbage bin at the side, lingering on the corner of the musty old carpet that peeks out from one side.

"How do mace and corpse correlate?" Dave shoots back. "Or by 'mace' do you mean you've got a Morningstar in your purse."

"I was going to beat you to death with your own hands after."

"Of, of course. That is definitely something a tiny girl like you could accomplish," Dave says in a monotone.

"You're just as tiny."

"I'm also made of muscle," Dave replies, raising an eyebrow. And it's true. He may be small, but he's strong. He has to be.

"Are you calling me fat?" Rose asks.

Dave just gives her a look that says, "_Are you fucking shitting me?"_ He can't even begin to comprehend the leap her mind has taken. It's so completely, utterly, _insanely_ stupid—_especially_ for Rose. It takes him for a full minute to recover enough to reply. "Yeah, Rose," he snaps. "You're so fat I can count your ribs from here. Damn, girl, lose some weight."

"You really shouldn't joke about that," Rose scolds. "I might be very sensitive about it."

"About being fat or being skinny," Dave replies. "Because either way you shouldn't be."

"About either." She slips the can back in her purse, tucking it safely into a pocket before doing up the zipper. "You also shouldn't stalk people," she adds.

"I wasn't stalking you. I was following you. There's a difference."

"Yes," she says. "The difference being the fact that you don't have a faceful of mace at the moment."

"Yeah. Seriously, though. Why go into an alley? That just makes it more dangerous for you."

"Because it's practically still broad daylight and I'm not scared."

"Maybe you should be." The words ring more ominous in his ears than they should. He doesn't want to pester her, really, but he knows the city and he knows Rose and it frightens him.

"Maybe you shouldn't follow me like that."

"What if it wasn't me."

"That is what the mace was for." Her tone makes it sound like her decision was perfectly logical. Dave still thinks she was being stupid.

"Just stay out of the alleys, alright?" Dave tries to keep the gruffness out of his voice, but he's still angry at her recklessness. Mace or not, he thinks it would be pretty easy for someone to overpower her—doubly so in the alleyway. She was strong in the game, yeah, but she doesn't have her thorns now.

"Fine," Rose spits back reproachfully. She's angry, but Dave thinks she'll keep her word.

Satisfied, Dave gives her a hesitant little pat on the head. "Good." He steps back, looking around casually, as though sight-seeing. "Are you headed home?"

"Shouldn't you know that if you're following me?" Rose still hasn't forgiven him. A part of him understands, really. His actions had probably come off as unsettling considering she had noticed him, and he starts to wonder if he had scared her.

He gives his shoulders a shrug and says, "I wasn't really paying attention to where you were going. I just wanted to see you again, I guess, even if it was from a distance. Maybe more if it was from a distance, I don't know." He sighs. "But _then_ you went off into some sketchy alley and of course I was going to go after you."

"I am, indeed, headed home," she tells him coolly. "And if you wish to see me you are allowed to approach." She pauses. "Though I understand you might not desire to."

"I'll keep it in mind," he replies. "Want me to walk you home."

"So long as you actually walk with me." Her tone is still a little brisk, but Dave can tell she's softening. The initial adrenaline rush of fear must be wearing off about now, weakening her fight-or-flight response. It's a feeling he's grown to know very well.

"Alright," he agrees, falling into step beside her as she leaves the alley. "How's school going?"

"Mm. Well enough. I have a large workload, but that is to be expected."

"Don't force too much on yourself," he says vaguely. He's not really sure what advice to give, really. It's been so long since he's been in school that the concept of homework is almost foreign to him.

Rose waves a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes."

"Have you been talking to John."

"Of course. He seems to be rather enjoying himself lately." At this, Rose permits herself a small smile. Dave wonders if she really does love him. She must. He's never seen her make that face before. He's not really sure how he feels. He can't remember what love was supposed to be like. He remembers that it's typically a good thing, though, so he hopes it works out for them.

"That's good. I guess the poor kid needs it."

"…Yes. He does."

Dave glances over and sees that the smile has faded to a faint look of concern. Unable to think of what to do, he reaches out and brushes his fingertips against her arm. "He'll be okay."

Rose seems a little surprised at the gesture, but nods. "I know."

"…I saw him a while ago."

"Did you now," Rose says flatly.

"…I guess he told you, huh." Of course Rose would be mad at him. He had done what he said he wouldn't, and then yelled at her boyfriend on top of it. And for something he had no control over! Dave wasn't worried about what John thought of him, really, but he found he still had enough of his old self left to be distressed over what Rose thought. She was his, after all. She was all he had left.

"Very cautiously, yes."

"Cautiously?"

"He wanted to be sure I knew it was you."

Confused, Dave narrows his eyes a little at her, trying to decipher what the hell that's even supposed to mean. "…so, what. He said Davesprite was visiting or what." His tongue felt bitter at the addition of the word _sprite_ to his name. It wasn't his name and he hated even the idea of people calling him that. It felt wrong, like it was dismissing him as a real person.

"No. He was just cautious because he wanted to preserve your privacy. After all, he wasn't sure if we should be talking about your visits."

Dave isn't sure how to take this, either. "I can't really see why. As long as it's not to…you know."

Rose gives a curt nod. "I do know. As I said, it was just a caution."

"What did he say?"

"About you?"

"Yeah."

Heaving a small sigh, Rose says, "He was surprised you were alive. I think he was a bit confused but he seemed glad to have met you."

"…did he tell you what we…what _I_ did?"

"I suppose that depends on which particular 'thing you did' to which you are referring."

"…I don't know. All of them?"

"He told me about your greeting, and the movies, and a few other details."

"…Oh." Dave gives a little humourless laugh. "I guess I yelled at him a lot, huh."

"A bit, yes."

"I knew he wasn't the same John. I swear. I just…I dunno what happened. I guess seeing him kind of shocked me."

"Of course it did. How could you expect to see him at his own home?"

The sarcasm is biting and Dave recoils. "I didn't go there on purpose," he tries to justify. "It wasn't until I saw the slime pogo that I noticed, and then there was nowhere to hide."

"You still looked," says Rose.

Hurt, Dave drops his gaze to the pavement. He didn't mean to. He didn't know. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have."

"You are allowed to look, Dave. I was not trying to imply otherwise. Merely that you set yourself up for that, hm?" Dave isn't sure if she's trying to make him feel better or worse, but it only seems to do the latter. She was right. Maybe he _did_ know. Maybe he had expected it. The rows of houses that looked the same, her warning about John's current state… But he hadn't believed her. He hadn't wanted to. So he went to look for himself and he had snapped.

_ To be fair, _Dave thinks, _I think I have a right to be angry. I saved his ass and gave up everything for him_. He knows it's an awful justification, but he doesn't care. It's still how he feels.

"…I keep doing it, too. I shouldn't even be here," he says at length.

"No?" Rose replies lightly. "I thought you were going to see me home."

"Yeah. I'll do that. But I'll try to stop. I won't follow you anymore."

Slowly, Rose comes to a halt and turns to face Dave. She sighs again and says, "Dave, just don't let me think I'm being stalked by a crazy person."

"I know. I just wanted to make sure you're okay." He gives another bitter laugh. "I guess you are."

"Thank you."

Dave stares at the ground for a while and they both stand in still hush. Neither of them fidgets nor moves to speak for quite some time.

Finally, Dave breaks the silence. "I'm tired, Rose." He can't keep the strain from his voice. He's so tired, he is, of everything. It's just too much.

"I have ample places for you to rest at my home if you want them."

"No," Dave says desperately. She's missing the point and he wants her to understand what he's trying to say. "I'm tired." But still she looks at him lightly, one eyebrow cocked in slight confusion. "I keep fucking shit up," he adds, trying to convey what he doesn't want to say outright.

"I don't think you've done anything too terrible yet. You just need some practice," she reasons.

"I don't know if anything will change even if I do."

"I have a bit of faith in you. If you are not comfortable, well. I will not force you into anything. But things can change if you let them," she says gently.

Dave can't form words for a moment. "I'm scared," he confides. "I just found you. I don't want to fuck up again."

_I don't want to turn you into Bro,_ he thinks. Dave can't handle that.

"Come home with me."

"I don't know." He's worried now that the process will just repeat. It'll repeat over and over, turning all he has left in the world into mindless pity drones. Dave doesn't want that. Not with Rose. She's too special.

"Come home with me, Dave," Rose insists a little firmer. "Just for a few hours, at least."

Dave wants to stay resolute, but her voice is so calm and so soothing that he feels the wall he keeps trying to put up between them dissolve. Before his mind catches up with his body, he's already stepped towards her and wrapped her in his bare-armed embrace. She's soft and small and clean and she's perfect.

"…Dave?" he hears her say, her breath tickling his exposed throat.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Just wait a minute."

"Sure. Take as long as you need."

"…Alright." Dave releases her and steps back, running his fingers through his too-long hair and finding himself unable to make eye contact. "Sorry. I dunno why I did that."

"Do not apologize," Rose replies. "There was nothing wrong in the action."

"I dunno. I don't know you that well anymore," he says. He gives a little laugh. "And I'm pretty sure having some dirty hobo touch you isn't on the top of your list of priorities."

Rose shakes her head. "I do not like hobos who I don't know and who want to get into my pants touching me. _You_ are just dirty. It will wash off."

"I dunno." He shrugs. "Well, whatever. Let's get you home."

"Right. I'll need to take a bus."

"Alright." Dave pauses, realizing that busses cost money and that's something he has absolutely none of. "…should I meet you at the end?"

"I can afford to give you change if you care to ride with me."

"Sorry," Dave says, feeling a little sheepish. First he stalks her, then he forces her to pay. Not a good day in the kingdom of Strider. "I'll pay you back."

"Dave, it's bus fare," Rose says impatiently. "I've spotted strangers before."

"I guess it just means more when you have no money." Nonetheless, he holds out his palm.

"I suppose so. Here." She drops a couple of coins into his outstretched hand and begins to walk. "The bus stop is just a block ahead."

Dave looks down at the money in his hand as he follows her. It's more than he's seen in a month and he feels a little wasteful spending it all on one bus ride. "Thanks."

"You are welcome."

"Heh." Dave's lips twitch into a little smile. "I don't get to ride the bus much. Unless I sneak on."

"It is not really an experience worth much, to be certain."

"It's better than running everywhere."

"Yes."

Dave's keen eyes pick up brightly coloured movement down the lane and he thinks he's spotted a bus. "Is that one ours?"

Rose follows his gaze, squinting a little. "Indeed it is."

For the first time in a while, Dave feels a little excited. He knows it's ridiculous, that it's just a bus, that people ride one every day without batting an eye. For Dave it's different, though. It seems special.

"Come along, Dave," Rose calls.

"Yeah, yeah." Dave rouses himself from his thoughts and follows her onto the bus, dropping the coins in the box with a satisfying clank. He's a little sad to see the money go, but he spots a couple of seats on the bus and forgets all about it. Rose flashes her transit pass and joins him, smirking slightly as she watches him stare out the window.

As the bus starts to move, Dave find himself sliding his hand over hers and grasping it gently between his fingers.

"Heh."

Quickly, he lets go. "Sorry."

Rose gives a little scoff and grasps his hand again, this time in her own. He gives it a squeeze.

"Thanks for putting up with me," Dave says. "It's…different when you're around. I feel better."

"I'm glad. And do not worry. I enjoy spending time with you as well."

"You're a good lil sis, aren't you."

"Perhaps."

"Not perhaps," Dave argues. "You are."

"Well, thank you."

"Hardworking and cute. Eggie got lucky." Dave pauses, suddenly realizing how disturbing his words are given the context. "…sorry. I'm not trying to be creepy. Guess I'm just too good at it."

To his surprise, Rose gives a little chuckle. "You're getting more comfortable with me, aren't you?"

Dave shifts a little, embarrassed. "Yeah. A little."

"A little is nice. Though, the compliments are unnecessary." But she gives his hand a little squeeze and he knows she isn't mad.

"I can't help it," he replies. "I'm proud. So young and you've already got a famous novel under your belt."

"Thank you."

"I mean it," Dave insists. "You're a pretty impressive kid."

"I know you mean it. You are not one to waste words."

Dave gives a little laugh and looks back out the window. "Heh. I guess so." He glances at her briefly. "I'm glad you're doing well."

"And how are you doing? I know you're tired, but otherwise? Are you keeping your head out of trouble?"

Dave shrugs. "Pardon the cliché, but sometimes it finds me. Don't worry, though. I haven't gotten too hurt lately."

"That is better than getting badly hurt, I suppose."

"I wouldn't worry too much. Even if it gets really bad, I just wake up later." Those experiences are all part of Dave's wonderful wealth of anti-deaths. He had once cut himself something awful when jumping trains, only to pass out from the excessive blood loss and reawaken a day later, drained but somehow still alive. He didn't even have the scar to prove it anymore.

"That's not very comforting, you know."

"It should be," Dave replies. "If anything, it means you're not going to lose me easily."

"Perhaps." Rose's eyes flick to the street sign and she stands. "This is our stop, Dave."

"Alright." Dave follows her back out into the chilly air. He gives an involuntary shiver at the change in temperature and rubs his arms. "Are you cold?"

"Not really."

"That's good."

"Are you?"

"Nah." Dave gives his head a little shake. "I don't really get cold like that."

"That's good to hear."

"And you've been sleeping and eating alright?" He knows it's a random question but he figures he might as well ask.

"Yes, yes."

Dave surveys her face carefully, wondering if she's telling the truth. "If you say so."

"Don't give me that look."

Feigning innocence, Dave says, "What look."

"The creepy staring one."

"Just looking."

"Of course." Rose rolls her eyes and leads him to the front door. "Come in, then."

Dave follows her into the lavish house, careful to pull his shoes off at the landing. His socks aren't much better, but it's the thought that counts. "Is your mom home?"

"Hm." Rose considers for a moment. "Probably not."

"Is she away a lot?"

"Sometimes. Often times she is here and hiding."

Dave reaches out and touches her cheek. "Do you miss her?"

Refusing to react to the gesture, Rose simply raises her eyebrows. "Is that really important?"

Dave withdraws his hand. "If you're asking that, maybe it is. How long has she been gone?"

"Two days."

"So, do you miss her?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Is that a yes?"

Rose heaves a dramatic sigh. "Maybe."

Dave gives her a little pat on the head. "It's okay," he soothes. "I miss Bro sometimes, too."

"It can be difficult without a guardian, I suppose."

Dave pauses, lips pursed in a thoughtful expression. "It's more than that, isn't it?"

"…What is it you wish to hear?" Rose is growing more annoyed now.

But Dave just shrugs. "I don't know. That I'm not the only one in this situation? Well. I guess that won't happen anyway. You'll see your mom again." He laughs hollowly.

"Do you miss him a lot?"

"Yeah, well. Got to see him die, didn't I? And he wasn't even mine. Call it nostalgia for my own Bro, maybe."

Rose gives a little nod. "…I miss her sometimes. She likes to leave. I don't know. It's not the same, but I guess I understand. Slightly."

Placidly, Dave just pats her on the head. "Talk to her. Tell her to maybe keep her damned ass at home once in a while."

"…Dave?"

"Yeah."

"Will you stay until she gets back?"

Dave hesitates. He knows he's treading on dangerous turf. He doesn't want to become too attached, even if it is his Rose. On the other hand, he knows he can't fight a direct request. He runs his hand down the back of her hair and sighs. "Sure. I guess I can stay a little while."

"I'm sorry to ask. I know you don't like staying too long."

"It's alright," he replies. "You're a little bit mine, after all. You get a couple extra privileges in this whole crazy setup."

"I believe I _am_ yours, last I checked, hm?" But she smiles. "Thank you all the same."

Dave reaches down and takes her hand in his again, giving it a little squeeze. "Yeah." He then glances in the direction of the washroom. "You don't have any extra clothes or anything, do you? I should probably shower before I dirty you or your house up any more."

"There are still some of John's. I can lay them out for you."

"Thanks. You're sweet, chickie."

Rose raises an eyebrow. "'Chickie'?"

"Yeah. Am I not allowed to call you that."

"I suppose it is not _too_ offensive."

"Think more bird lingo and less derogatory term for woman."

"So I'm a young bird."

"You're my lil sis, aren't you? It fits."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Fine, Dave. Go have your shower."

"If you don't like it, I'll stop."

"I haven't decided my feelings on it yet," Rose replies brusquely.

"I'll lay off for now. Where are my promised clothes?"

"I was distracted by your nicknames."

"Heh. Come on. The sooner you give them the sooner you escape the threat of a filthy house."

"Yes, yes." Rose leads Dave up the stairs and begins leafing through her bottom drawer of clothes. She passes him a white shirt and some slacks. Dave smiles a little at the obvious colour choice.

"Oh?" Rose teases. "Am I getting a smile here?"

"Yeah. You're cute."

"I am not cute."

"Yeah. Maybe I'm wrong. You're downright adorable." Dave's smile grows a little more and Rose shoots him a ball-shrivelling glare. He just chuckles and pats her on the head until she rolls her eyes. "What."

"Go have your shower."

"Alright. See you soon," Dave says. As an afterthought, he adds, "Chickie."

"See you."

And so, Dave stalks off to the bathroom to carefully strip off his filthy clothes and wash off the layer of accumulated grime. By the time he's dried and changed, he's feeling much better, padding down the hall in an almost dreamlike state. "Feels pretty good to be clean."

"It does, doesn't it? You know, you are welcome to the bath if you are in the area."

"You trying to keep me coming back, chickie?"

"Maybe I am."

"Heh. Well, I can't say it's not tempting."

"That's why I made the offer."

Realizing that Rose is raising no more objections to his new name for her, he makes sure to use it liberally. "So you're a smart little chickie."

"I know what I want."

"Heh." Dave smiles briefly, then gives a thoughtful pause. "I missed you, chickie."

"Did you now?" Rose looks away. "I missed you, too."

"I did," Dave reinforces. "I told you already, didn't I? I feel better when I'm with you."

Hesitantly, Rose reaches up and smoothes some of the damp hair from his face. "I do, too."

Surprised, Dave blurts, "What. But you have people."

"Who live states away. Who don't randomly swing by."

"…That's true. It must be hard."

Rose drops her hand to her side. "I get by."

"I'll visit more," Dave promises. He knows it's stupid but he doesn't want her to be alone.

"I'd like that."

"I'll take care of you."

"Take care of me?" She raises her eyebrows as if in challenge.

"Yeah." Dave ignores her thinly veiled mockery. "DO what I should've done, and what you deserve."

Regretting her harshness, she trails off. "Dave…" He pats her head. He knows it's lame, but it's as close as he can come to his own childhood's display of affection from Bro—the ruffling of one's hair. He would copy it, too, but he knows that's what his doppelganger would do. Dave wants to be different, so he just pats her placidly. Somehow it doesn't seem as meaningful to him, but it's what he's got to work with. "Really? I don't think…"

"Hm?"

"I don't know," says Rose. "About what you mean. What you want to do."

"Take care of you? Make sure you aren't too lonely. Make sure you're eating and sleeping properly. Helping you if you need it."

"I don't need that," she says bluntly.

"Sure you do. Everyone does."

"I…I don't know."

"You don't want me to look out for you?"

"I don't want to be a burden."

"Heh. I don't think you could be if you tried."

Unsure, Rose raises her eyes to meet his. "Doesn't it trap you, though?"

Dave regards her carefully. She's right. It is a trap, well set and ready to spring. But he doesn't care. "…maybe I need to be trapped."

Rose reaches up and brushes her palm against his cheek. He stays very still, going so far as to even hold his breath. He's not sure if he's doing this to keep from scaring her, or himself.

"I…I think I'd like you to try," Rose says.

Dave nods. "I'll take care of you."

Rose drops her hand once more, this time in favour of wrapping her arms around his waist in a small hug. "Alright."

"Heh," says Dave. "You can be pretty gentle." And, despite all her poignant jabs, he's telling the truth. It's almost surprising, really. The girl who went grimdark without a second thought was now entertaining the possibility of a brotherly addition to her dysfunctional family.

"Go to bed," Rose says flatly.

"Am I being banished," Dave teases. "It's true, though. You're a sweet lil chickie."

"Out. I don't want to hear it."

"Are you mad?" Dave asks.

"…No. Not really. Just get out."

"Embarrassed?" Dave presses. He's not sure why, but he finds this amusing.

"Now."

Dave laughs softly and hugs her again, pressing his lips to the top of her head in a little kiss. "Night, chickie."

"I…" Obviously thrown by this, Rose musters the mind to say "goodnight" before pushing him out the door and shutting it tight. Dave just chuckles under his breath again, then begins the trek back to her living room couch.

_It's good to have family_, he thinks blandly as he begins to drift off.

Maybe this will work.


	16. Flowers

When Dave wakes up, the house is silent. The sun is just peeking over the trees of the forest and he can hear Rose's slow, steady breathing. He sits up and stretches the muscles in his back. It's strange, but despite his years sleeping on the cold, hard ground, he still finds it difficult to sleep on the couch. Maybe couches are just too cramped for his style.

Dave slips out of the house, this time unconcerned as to whether he's caught or not. He's not running away, so there's no guilt. He thinks he'll be back before she even wakes up.

He doesn't stray far from the house. Instead, he maps the surrounding forest in his mind, reinforcing what he already knows so well. He's been here once or twice since his first visit, but he'd never been found. He had never left the boundaries of the trees, either; for him, it was enough to just see the house from a distance. It reminded him that she was here.

Somewhere along a ravine, Dave finds a patch of flowers that have somehow managed to escape the chill. He plucks them, leaving only a sparse patch to continue fighting the losing battle against winter. He knows what it's like to be these flowers. Between a drawn-out death by exposure and a relatively quick death by decapitation, he knows which he would choose. So he slips the flowers into his back pocket and keeps walking.

After an hour or two of milling around the woods, he goes back to the front door. Finding it locked, his immediate logic is to climb a tree he thinks stands near her room. He could ring the doorbell, sure, but that was too much a hassle for all the parties involved. That's what Dave tells himself, anyway, as he scales the branches.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Dave raps his knuckles against the windowpane and Rose looks up from her textbook. She raises her eyebrows slightly, but that's the only indication of surprise she's willing to give.

"Hello," she says.

"Open up, chickie," Dave replies, tapping his fingers against the glass again.

"Maybe."

"'Maybe'?" Dave repeats, incredulous.

"Maybe." She gives a short mocking laugh followed by a knowing smirk.

"Come on, chickie," Dave coaxes. "It's cold and I've got something for you."

"Oh, for me?" She bats her eyes dramatically, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why didn't you _say_ so!"

But Dave's back is starting to hurt from the awkwardly stretched position and the cold is starting to nip unpleasantly at his skin, threatening to prickle at his stomach. "Yeah, yeah. Just open the damn window."

"Heh." She laughs but rises, coming to unlock the window and force it open. She steps aside and folds her arms, watching him.

Gratefully, Dave climbs through. He swings down through the gap and quickly closes the window beside him, eager to block the cold where he can help it. Then he straightens up and pulls the little bundle of unfortunate looking flowers from his pocket, offering them to her. "Might be a little crushed, what with the you locking me out and all."

She regards them rather coldly, raising an immaculate eyebrow. "My, aren't we adorable in the morning," she says flatly.

"Did someone piss in your cereal or something?" Dave replies. "What's wrong?"

Rose sighs. "I like the flowers, Dave."

That's not a good enough answer. Dave presses, "Seriously. Are you okay?"

"Last I checked."

Dave narrows his eyes, looking at her closely. He's bad with reading faces but he's pretty sure she's lying. "Are you mad at me?"

Rose lingers in her spot for a few minutes, hesitant, before she steps back a pace. She glances up at him, somehow unable to make proper eye contact. "Why did you kiss me?"

Dave just stares, absolutely baffled. "Uh. I don't know. Because I felt like it?"

"That isn't a reason."

"I…I don't really know how to answer." Dave gives a confused laugh. "That is the reason, chickie. Isn't that how people show affection? Touching and hugging and kissing."

"I suppose. Just…" Rose leaves the word hanging, staring absently at the pile of unfinished knitting by her desk but not really seeing it. She gives her head a little shake and looks back to him. "Never mind. This is dumb. Are you hungry?"

Dave isn't quite as eager to let go. He steps forward and pats her on the head. "It's not dumb. Don't avoid it. Tell me what's up."

"Nothing is up!" Rose snaps, pushing his hand away. "Just drop it."

"Did it make you uncomfortable?"

Her confession comes all at once, as though she's unable to argue any longer. "It was weird. People don't kiss me, Dave. Not out of the blue. Not like that."

"John doesn't?" Dave asks. "Or your mom? Or…or that guy?"

"This isn't even supposed to be a topic!" Rose gives a frustrated growl, pressing her palm to her forehead. "_Fine_. Mom and Strider don't. I'm not used to it. So yes, I am a bit uncomfortable with it out of nowhere."

Dave watches her for a while, then says, "Chickie…I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I know how that sort of thing feels." And he does, because he knows that he's probably doing the same thing that Bro did to him, just in a different context. There's no pity here, sure, but it's the same breach of traditional boundaries. Dave isn't used to softness from Bro and Rose isn't used to affection from…well, anyone outside her weird little boyfriend.

"I'm just…confused." Rose clutches her arms to her, stepping back once more. This clearly isn't something she's comfortable with discussing, but she's trying anyway and Dave feels is a little impressed. She's stronger than he ever will be, at any rate.

"'Confused'?"

She shakes her head again. "I don't _know_, Dave. I don't know. I don't know what to think of it at all."

"I'm not hitting on you or anything," he reassures. "It just felt like something I should do. I don't have many people."

"I know you're not hitting on me," she replies impatiently. ""That's why it's weird, Dave. I don't have affectionate family. Mother and Strider aren't exactly touchy-feely people."

"Is it bad if I am?" Dave replies. "I mean, only sometimes. And only with you." He pauses, riffling his fingers through his hair awkwardly. "…maybe that makes it worse. I don't know."

She hesitates, then says, "It felt kind of nice. But…I just haven't really gotten used to it. Ever. Not like this."

"That's kind of sad," Dave says. He knows it's pretty hypocritical to say, considering the closest thing to affection he's gotten in the seven years before he found her were disturbing and/or lewd propositions from meandering hobos. Rose doesn't know that, though, and in her situation, it does strike him as a little unfair.

"I know," she replies. She would sound bitter if she didn't seem so tired.

"…want me to help fix that?" Dave offers.

Rose doesn't reply outright. She thinks for a little while, still avoiding his gaze. Then, she gives a little nod. Dave smiles and wraps her in his arms.

"It's alright, chickie," he soothes.

"The flowers are pretty," she whispers.

"Heh. No roses, though. Thought you might interpret that as some sort of passive-aggressive bullshit."

Rose snorts. "These are fine."

He pats her on the back of the head and releases her. It's time for him to be a good big brother. He needs all the practice he can get. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Well, then. Let's get you some grub." Dave smiles and rests his hand on her back, guiding her to the door. "Mama hen's gonna make sure his little chickie's all set."

Rose snorts again, but Dave is starting to learn her tells. She's not about to tell him, but he thinks she's starting to enjoy their arrangement.

And, truthfully, so is he.


	17. Generic Birdness

Dave's hands, though thoroughly washed, still feel like chemicals as he sits and eats his pancakes, trying to avoid Rose's judging gaze. He glances behind her at the now sparkling kitchen, which had only an hour ago been a warzone of batter and burns.

He is not a skilled chef, to say the least.

"Next time, I think you leave the cooking to me," she says finally, a touch of ice creeping into her voice. "I was not aware at your complete inability to follow even basic instructions."

Dave just shrugs. He's never really had a chance to try cooking out for himself, not since he was thirteen and barely even then. "Gotta learn sometime."

"Not in my kitchen, you don't."

"Yeah, yeah. Artistic oversight."

"Is that what you were trying to do? 'Art'?" Her lip curls in a nasty smirk and Dave lowers his gaze to his pancakes. He's not feeling very hungry anymore.

"Sure."

Softening, Rose reaches over and touches his hand with a sigh. "It's alright, Dave. I know you haven't had experience cooking…_even if it's something as simple as pancakes_." She is unable to keep the sarcastic tone from the end of the sentence, so she speeds up and gives a brief cough at the end.

"It's cool, chickie," he replies. "I did fuck up pretty badly. You okay?"

"Yes, but you did clean up afterwards. I suppose I shouldn't blame you too much." She sighs again, then permits him a small smile. "I am fine, Dave. What about you? You burned yourself, didn't you?"

Dave shrugs. "Not badly or anything. It just surprised me. It hasn't even blistered, I think we're fine."

"Tell me if you require anything."

"Nah. I'm cool."

"Are you going to finish those?" Rose gestures to the stack on his plate.

"Why? Do you want them?"

"I would put them in the fridge for you if you are finished."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks." Dave surrenders the half-eaten food and Rose carefully packs it away, putting their dishes in the sink.

"So…" Rose lets her voice trail off in the unspoken question. What were they supposed to do now? Dave had already made a bunch of partially thought out promises, but how was he supposed to act on them, exactly?

"Yeah," says Dave. He doesn't know either.

"Perhaps we should sit on the couch?" Rose suggests.

"Sure."

They make their way back to the living room and Dave flops down in his traditional cool-kid style (i.e. slouching so far he's only really half on the couch). Perhaps wanting to set an example, Rose sits placidly on the edge, the very picture of refinement. It makes Dave want to laugh.

If Dave's posture bothers her, though, she doesn't say anything. Instead, Rose reaches a tentative hand out and strokes her brother's hair. It surprises him—going so far as to even frighten him a little—but he stays perfectly still. She runs her fingers down a lock, regarding it with a sort of mild interest.

"Like it?" Dave asks, his lips twitching into an almost teasing smirk.

"It is almost shockingly soft, yes," she replies, "but far too long. The cut is strange, as well."

Dave shrugs. "I'm a hobo, aren't I. I cut it when I can with what I have. Sometimes it turns out a little badly."

"Very," Rose corrects.

"What."

"Very badly."

Dave snorts. "You try cutting your own hair with a pocket knife. Tell me how it works out for you."

"Well, then. I shall just have to remedy the situation." Rose drops the lock of hair and stands, smoothing out a crease on her skirt.

"What."

She rolls her eyes. "Your hair, Dave. I am going to cut it."  
>"What."<p>

"Just because you are a hobo, it doesn't mean you have to _look_ like one. Now fetch that stool and bring it to the kitchen while I find my scissors."

"You don't have to."

Rose shoots him a rather terrifying look. "Oh, yes I do. I can't have you walking around looking like that. It's simply unbecoming."

Dave rolls his eyes behind his shades but goes to get the stool anyway. By the time he's set it in the center of the kitchen, Rose has returned with a pair of scissors and a towel to catch the cuttings.

"Sit down," she directs impatiently. Wanting to avoid a repeat of the day's earlier events, Dave quickly obeys. He watches her set up for a few minutes, pulling his glasses off in his own form of preparation. Rose straightens up and turns back to him, scissors in hand, about to speak.

She stops.

It seems to take her a moment to find her voice. "Dave…?"

"Yeah…?" Dave replies, a little uncertain. Her eyes are wide with shock and he can't understand why.

"Your glasses…"

"Huh?" Dave looks at the shades in his hand. "I took them off. Isn't it easier for you that way?"

"I...yes. Of course it is." Rose gives her head a little shake, seemingly forcing herself from her thoughts and back to reality.

Dave pauses. "This is about the other guy, isn't it." He tries to keep his voice flat, and he thinks it works. He's spent enough years perfecting his monotone, though, and it always comes back to him easier than he expects.

"Yes."

"Thought so. Look, I can put them back on if you want."

"No! I mean, no. That isn't necessary. I was just…surprised."

"Yeah, well, so was I." He gives an uncomfortable shrug.

Slowly, Rose reaches out with her free hand, running her palm along his cheek and directing him to face her. Obediently, he meets her gaze, though his breath trembles with nerves. He feels suddenly naked without his shades, something he hasn't felt since before the colour swap.

"Your eyes changed, too," she says.

"Guess that means you know about him, then," Dave replies dully. Rose isn't the only one capable of observation.

Rose hesitates, then simply says, "Yes."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to have a panic attack or some stupid shit over this," Dave tells her, a little more harshly than he intends to. He wants to prove that he's different, that he's stronger. He's not the same pampered kid she knows.

"Good." Her eyes linger a little longer on his face before she retreats to his back. "Now, then. Let's have you looking human again, hm?"

"Yeah." Gratefully, Dave drops his gaze to the floor again before closing his eyes. He feels her running her fingers through his hair, probably judging how it falls and how best to cut it, to style it. He thinks he should be scared, but he doesn't feel it. Rose's caresses are gentle and he finds himself enjoying them. It's been so long since he's been touched in such a familiar way and for so long, it's almost overwhelming. He wonders if she notices him shaking—surely, she must. His face flushes with embarrassment as her fingers linger by his neck, as they examine the length and judge what needs to be done. It's too much to handle all at once, he can't…he…

"Dave?" Rose says.

"Coo," says Dave. He claps his hands to his mouth the moment he's said it, his cheeks turning bright red.

A pause. "Did you…say something just then?"

"No," Dave says, reply muffled by his hands.

She returns her attention to his hair and he thinks he's been saved. Rose begins to snip practice cuts at the ends of his hair. "I didn't know crows could coo."

"Goddamn!" Dave is so embarrassed and confused that he doesn't know what to do. "Of course they fucking can't!"

"Oh? So you won't make that sound for me again?" Rose teases. "And here I was, hoping you'd prototyped yourself again with a pigeon or perhaps a dove…"

"No. Fuck you. No."

"Don't be embarrassed. It was rather endearing. Do you do it often?" Rose has finished practicing and is now moving on to stronger cuts. Dave can see longer locks of hair pooling out on the floor around him.

"No. Of course I fucking don't, have you heard it before? No. It's stupid and it's involuntary and _I am a goddamn crow for fuck's sake, I should not be dealing with this kind of horseshit_."

"I think it's cute."

"I think it's fucking _cruel_. The game didn't have you speaking in tongues upon completion, did it? I didn't fucking think so."

Rose lowers her scissors for a moment and puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Dave," she says gently.

"It's not alright," he snaps. "It's stupid. This is stupid."

"I don't know. It seemed like a rather contented sound to me."

"That doesn't make it any fucking better!" Dave is so ashamed; all he wants to do is find a small, dark corner to curl up in. He wants to shut the world out. His face is burning so intensely, it's a wonder Rose hasn't teased him for glowing neon red.

"It's alright," she says again, undaunted. "It has not been so long that I have forgotten how the game worked. I remember there were a few other animal sounds we all had to put up with—a coo isn't nearly as bad as some."

"I never fucking cooed in game. This is a fucking joke."

"Did you ever have reason to?"

Dave hesitates. "It's still stupid."

"Stupid, yes, and illogical," Rose agrees. "And yet, I feel as though I have just dedicated the rest of my life to getting you to do it again."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. Rose, no."

"Oh, yes." Rose gives his shoulder a squeeze and then returns to the task at hand. "I think it is quite an admirable goal."

"No. No, it isn't. Don't fucking do that."

"I would have thought you would embrace my decision fully," Rose replies. "After all, I was under the impression it required you to be happy and comfortable."

"Where the fuck are you getting all this baseless conjecture from."

"Am I wrong?"

Again, he hesitates. He's only made the sound twice before, and, until now, it had been easy to forget—a mispronounced caw, perhaps, or a strange clearing of the throat. But now he had slipped up, had an audience.

And she wasn't going to let him forget.

"Hm?" Rose prompts. Dave doesn't trust himself to speak now. He can feel something rising in his chest, tingling his throat. Rose is being very gentle as she continues cutting his hair, so gentle that he knows it's a remarkable display of sadism. She's teasing him, trying to coax another coo out of him. It's terribly cruel and he knows that the minute he lets his guard down, it'll work.

"I hate you," Dave croaks. "So goddamn much."

"That sounded much more like a crow," Rose replies. "To be honest, I think I preferred pigeon."

"Fuck you."

At this, Rose sets down her scissors. The cut is done. She begins to run her fingers through his hair again, shaking out the stray pieces and letting them rain across the floor. She's taking a long time, though, and Dave knows it's just another ploy. A shiver runs across his shoulders and her fingers brush his neck.

"Coo," says Dave at last. "Fuck! Coo. Fuck you."

Rose chuckles. "There it is. Thank you. That was highly entertaining."

"I hate you so much," Dave growls.

"What's a sister for?" Rose replies. She sets the scissors on the counter and picks up a mirror, getting into position and holding it up for Dave to see. "So? Acceptable?"

Dave can barely recognize himself. He runs his fingers through his hair, cut short and stylish. It reminds him of his old haircut, the one he used to get all the time, but aged-up. He can't help but stare.

"I…" he begins, but his words have deserted him. "I…thanks."

"Yes, I do think you look nearly halfway presentable now," Rose agrees. "I will do it again, too, the next time you need it. I don't want my brother running around the country with a mop for a head."

"Yeah. Thanks, Rose."

Rose simply smiles and pats his head. "I think you earned it."

"Huh?"

She presses her lips together and, between her smirk, she purrs an airy, "Coo."

Dave's heart drops. "Fuck you."

"You're welcome."

"Bitch." But despite his embarrassment and feigned anger, he really does appreciate what she's done for him.

After all, it almost makes him feel normal.


	18. Cage

It doesn't take long for Dave to realize he can't stop running his fingers through his hair. Every time he passes a reflective surface, he pauses to peer at himself in what he considers muted curiosity. After all, he almost looks respectable for a change.

This doesn't keep Rose from teasing him, however. Every time she catches him admiring his own appearance, the corners of her lips twitch, and she usually accompanies it with a sarcastic comment. Dave ignores it the first few times, but it eventually starts to get to him so he tries to be more subtle about it.

The slightly uncomfortable feeling Dave has around Rose has not yet abated, he finds, despite their increasing familiarity. He's frightened, really. The closer they become, the more he wants to run. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened with Bro. Not with Rose.

He wonders if Rose notices this. He wonders if she notices the way he shirks away when she pats his head, the current extent of their affection. He hasn't cooed since she cut his hair, either, but he thinks he can get away with that. It never had to be a common occurrence; after all, he isn't cawing every other sentence, either.

If Rose has caught on, she doesn't show it. She merely sits beside him on the couch, knitting placidly, letting him do what he wants. Most of the time, Dave just sits there, motionless. They don't speak much now, and the only sound is the resounding tick-tock of a clock somewhere off in another room. Dave is so still, so very still, that he thinks he can feel the blood running through his system. Every muscle in his body is tensed to the point of aching; he wants to run. This tension, this fear, everything has been building and now he can't gather the courage to actually _leave_.

"Dave?" A light touch on his arm and Dave springs to his feet before his mind can catch up with his body. Rose looks up at him, eyebrows slightly raised in surprise.

"Nothing," Dave says quickly, forcing himself to sit again. Rose reaches up to smooth the hair from his face and, hesitantly, he allows this. He wants this, really, on some level. He wants this familial affection, a gentle touch. At the same time, though, the whirling feeling in his stomach won't go away and he's terrified. He laughs bitterly at himself for his two-sided response system—either run, or play dead. He's playing dead now, he thinks, staying perfectly still. The statue defence.

"Are you alright?"

Unable to find words, Dave gives a noncommittal shrug. She pulls her hand away and sets her knitting down on her lap, and Dave finds he can breathe a little better now.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Dave finally manages to find his voice and says, "Nah, I'm cool, chickie" with an accompanying pat on her head. This doesn't seem to dissuade her, however and she studies him closely.

"Have you been feeling alright lately?"

Dave's stomach sinks. She's noticed. "Yeah. I'm fine. You paranoid or something?"

"You seem to be behaving a little…oddly."

"Oh, yeah, I'm jittery like a preteen at prom equivalent. Girls stick to one side of the gym, dudes on the other. We're mixing it up all bad dance movie style." Dave realizes he does have a third defence mechanism: running his mouth. Maybe if he blabbers on long enough, she'll forget.

Rose is too smart for that, though. Of _course_ she is. She cuts through his bullshit with another touch of his arm and he falls silent. "Dave."

"Yo."

"You can tell me if something is wrong." She hesitates. "You haven't hurt yourself, have you?"

"Nah, chickie, I'm alright. Don't worry." He gives her cheek a light pinch. To his surprise, her concern helps to quell the fluttering in his stomach.

"Dave, I am not trying to trap you here. You are free to leave if you desire it." She runs her fingers through his hair again and he catches himself almost leaning into the gesture. _Reign it in, Strider,_ he thinks. _You can't go nuzzling like a goddamn kitten every time someone is nice to you._

"I need to be trapped," is his reply. He wants to show her that he's here for her. He's not going to break his promise.

"Perhaps," she says. "But not caged."

"That's the same—"

"It's not the same thing, Dave. You don't have to stay for longer than you are comfortable with."

"Chickie, are…are you trying to get rid of me?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I am certainly not trying to _force_ you to leave. But I do know that you are accustomed to a certain level of, shall we say, freedom. I am not going to order you to stay in this cage."

"It's not a cage. It's your house."

"With the way you are acting, I think either term could apply." She smoothes his hair once more before letting her hand rest on her lap.

"I can't…" But Dave doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He can't _what_ exactly?

"Do not get me wrong, Dave," Rose says. "I am not _releasing_ you. You are still very much trapped."

He raises his head, drawn from his own thoughts in confusion. "What?"

"I am not releasing you," she repeats. "You are allowed to leave as you please, but you must promise to _return_."

Dave stares at her, mouth slightly open in shock. "I…"

"Is that a more appropriate condition for you?"

"I…yeah, chickie. It is." Slowly, Dave can feel the weight being lifted from his chest. The tension in his limbs seems to fade until all he feels is tired. "Thanks."

"Is that what has been bothering you this past few days?"

"Yeah. Something like that." Dave doesn't want to tell her about Bro yet. He _can't_ tell her about Bro, really, he'd be giving away too much. He would be inviting another disaster. He's already exercising utmost caution, keeping the hem of his shirt low over his pants and covering himself in blankets while he sleeps, despite their stifling warmth.

Rose reaches over and places her hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "If you need me, Dave, I'm here."

Dave slips his hand out from under hers and pats her head. "Yeah. I know. The same goes for you, alright?"

"Thank you." She leans against him and he watches her for a few moments, absently smoothing her hair with one hand. It's almost surreal to him, having her so close after so many years. This is _his_ Rose, a link to _his_ world. Without thinking, he presses his lips to the top of her head.

"Thanks for looking out for me, chickie." He hesitates. "I…I think I'm going to head out tonight."

It takes her a while to respond, and he feels his heart beat a nervous tempo against his chest. "Very well," she says. "Are you sure you don't want to wait until morning?"

"Yeah."

"And…"

"And?"

"You promise you will come back, correct?"

Dave gives a little chuckle. "Yeah. I'll be back, chickie."

"Good." She pauses. "Thanks, Dave." Dave just rests his head against hers in reply.

In a few hours, he is gone.


	19. Taking the Lead

The knot in his stomach curls tighter as Dave walks down the street. Every fibre of his being is telling him to turn around and hop the next train heading out of state, but he defies the urge. He's being stupid, he's being _so_ stupid and he knows it but it's been eating away at him and he can't take it anymore.

He doesn't know how long it will take. He doesn't know the schedule anymore, the complex series of steps preceding every show. He doesn't know if they've changed. Hell, he doesn't know if the guy even _plays_ anymore.

Of _course_ he fucking plays, he would never _not_ play, even if he was deaf in both ears or lost his hands in a freak smuppet accident.

Dave wonders when the next gig is.

His stomach turns again as he wonders if that guy will show up, that _other_ guy, the one he doesn't want to see. Dave doesn't want to see either of them, really, but between the one he came for and the one he might find, there's no contest.

He's here.

Dave slows his pace and stops.

He's here.

He's in front of Bro's favourite record shop. Or rather, the one the guy used to go to, and the one he saw him in front of a couple of months ago. No, it must be Bro's favourite shop. Everything about it screams _Bro_. He wouldn't go anywhere else.

Now it's just a waiting game. Dave scopes out the location, looking for any good camping spots. There's an alleyway a store down that seems more than acceptable; Dave will even be able to hear Bro coming. It's been years, but he still knows the sound of his brother's stride. It's not something you forget, certainly not with all the surprise strifes he had been launched into as a child.

Dave tucks himself out of sight and leans back against the rough brick wall. The dark clouds in the sky seem ominous, and, within the hour, make good on their threat. Soon, the air is thick with fat snowflakes, drifting down and melting on his skin. He wraps his arms around his stomach and waits.

It doesn't take long for Dave to start to drift off. He's long since waived the warnings of the danger of sleeping in the cold—it doesn't apply to him. He's no little matchstick girl, and hell, even if he wanted to go see grandma, it's not something that'd ever be granted to him.

Birds start to gather at his feet, hopping around him in little circles, sometimes looking up at him with their curious bright eyes. He offers a finger and one takes the bait, coming over in a flurry of wings and using it as a perch. They look at each other for a moment and Dave almost gives a little smile. They're kindred spirits in the cold and he's grateful for the company.

When Dave comes to, he's unsure of how long he's been asleep. His body is stiff and he wonders if he lived through another death. The birds seem to have fled and he's alone again. Dave shakes the snow from his shoulders and tries to massage the feeling back into his limbs.

He is only granted a brief reprieve when he hears the low rumble of a familiar voice. He throws himself to his feet quicker than he means to and stumbles out of the alleyway, cold and shaken and shivering. He's in the direct path of vision, but that's what he wants: to be seen.

Bro doesn't look up and Dave finds himself completely at a loss. He doesn't know whether to clear his throat or call out or—he considers this for only a brief and wholly absurd moment—to caw. Anything will do, anything to get his attention, to make him notice—

Bro looks up and electricity shoots down Dave's skeleton, leaving him an unpleasant tingling feeling. They both stand their respective distance, seemingly frozen. Even the attendant seems to notice; he looks first at Bro, then at Dave, then back again, an unspoken question on his face. They've been like this too long and neither one seems willing to make the first move.

It's Dave who breaks the stillness, though, but it's not the way he wanted. His plans seem to have frozen in place the moment their shaded eyes met and he can't remember anything—_anything _—at all.

So he runs.

He doesn't look back until he's put a good number of blocks between him and the record shop, but the low sickness he feels in the pit of his stomach tells him what his ears already know.

Dave ran, but Bro didn't follow.


	20. Catching the Westbound

The rumbling vibrations hum over Dave's body, relentlessly trying to shake his grip loose. This makes him tighten his fist around the latch even more, determined not to be thrown off. He tries to flatten himself possum-belly to the roof, but there is little more he can do but hang on for dear life at this point. The wind whistles over his head, deafening his ears. It's at times like these that he's glad he travels light; you can't lose something you don't have.

He does have a scarf, though, and despite having had tied it carefully about him, it still seems to be fighting against the knots. Ignoring the ominous flapping, Dave knows it can get no worse than the first time he had ridden the roof; back then, he wore his scarf loose as always—something he had quickly learned was both dangerous and stupid. He'd nearly strangled himself to death, only managing to tear it from his throat at the last second. It was a miracle he was able to keep the damned thing at all, really.

_Beginner's luck_, Dave thinks, squinting his eyes against the rushing wind. At least he had had the foresight to slip his shades into his pocket on the first run. He's done it ever since. Out of all the things Dave owns—all six of them—the shades are definitely his most treasured item. After all, after Rose, they're all he has left to remind him of his world.

So he sticks them in his pocket and hopes they don't break.

Dave presses his head against his arms, the skin on his face raw from his brief glance into the unknown. He doesn't know where the train is taking him, other than _away_. That was the only requirement, though, so he doesn't care. He's tired of putting up a fight with everything that comes his way. Even the train is fighting him, trying to shake him loose like a flea-ridden dog. Dave struggles to keep his grip, but the strength in his arms is fading. He's tired, _so_ tired, and he doesn't know how much longer he can last. His muscles are too sore and they've been clenched against the vibrations too long. Dave tries to brace his feet against the cold metal but he just slides back again, his worn soles finding no purchase on the surface. His knees clank painfully against a steel bar and the wind carries away his stream of cursing.

Dave finds his fingers starting to slip from the handle of the latch he had so resourcefully discovered. He almost doesn't care at this point, with his body being jostled and slammed against the hard roof and the wind trying to pick him up and toss him over the edge. He doesn't care. What would it matter if he just let go?

But he can see Rose's face in his mind and he doesn't want to lose her yet. He lost one sibling; that doesn't mean he has to lose both. So he forces his fingers shut again. He'll try a little harder, just for her, even if it means ignoring the searing pain in his forearms.

The train is thundering down the track at what feels like an alarming rate, but then, it always feels like an alarming rate to Dave. You never _really_ understand how fast a vehicle is moving until you step outside it, feel the wind against your body and see the scenery blur past in a nauseating streak of colour. Dave isn't sure, but he thinks the train might be passing through a forest now, what with all the green he sees when he peeks up above the white of his arms. He wonders how many miles he's travelled now and how long it's taken to get this far.

After another ten minutes (hours? Weeks? It feels like infinitely more), Dave's at his limit. He can't hold on anymore. He's too tired and weak and he's pretty sure every inch of his body is covered in bruises. He wonders how best to disembark without getting himself killed, when the train does it for him. It gives a particularly violent shudder, knocking his hands clean from the bar, giving the wind an opening and letting it slip under his belly and try to pull him into the air.

With a sickening lurch of fear, Dave tries to flatten himself spread-eagle, willing his body to become part of this goddamn metal monster that's trying to murder him. He tries to be one with the roof, but the roof isn't willing. Dave finds himself sliding down the caboose, stray nuts and bolts catching on his clothes and digging into the skin on his torso. He curses, then goes still; he can feel himself starting to slip over the edge.

He has to jump. It's his only chance. He has to put distance between himself and the train, momentum be damned, or he'll end up greasing the tracks with his own meat. Dave tries to make out what's on the side of the train, letting his eyes dart along with the scenery to try and catch what's happening.

Still forest. Forest and rocks and bushes. It's better than a cliff, at any rate. Safer, too, as long as he doesn't hit a tree. Anything is better than being run over by the train, really.

Dave clenches his fingers and tenses his legs, mustering the courage to do it. In one swift motion, he shoves himself from the cargo car and flies, utterly and absurdly free for the brief moment before he is crushed into the ground at full speed.

To his credit, Dave doesn't hit a single tree. He lands heavily on a rock and rolls through a few bushes before he somersaults down a short ravine, but he doesn't hit any trees.

"Score," says Dave, except he can't really talk, so it sounds more like a guttural splutter than an actual word. His head pounds so painfully he can barely form sentences except _oh god_, there is just so much blood and it's just fucking _everywhere_ and it can't possibly all be his, can it?

He doesn't even know where it's coming from. There's a lot, of course, and he knows this but he can't stop thinking it because there's so much and it's so completely all over that he can smell it, taste it, he can practically _hear_ it and he doesn't know how the hell it even happened.

Then he wonders where the pain is. Surely, if this were all his blood, then he would feel something. All he feels is empty, though, and tired. Very tired. He wonders how he stayed awake so long, being this tired. Dave wants very much to just close his eyes and sleep, and his body seems to agree because it's stopped moving. He thinks he might be able to move it if he tried, but he very much does _not_ want to try. He just wants to sleep. He thinks that is the best option at this moment, for some reason, covered in blood and nearly upside down at the bottom of a ravine in the middle of fuckall nowhere.

Then Dave stops thinking at all.

x.x.x.x

Pain.

Pain and a strange metallic taste in his mouth that won't go away.

Dave sits up and immediately regrets his decision. He's very sore and very confused. He swills a mouthful of saliva and spits to the side, trying to lose the taste of blood. It's hard to get rid of, though, especially when the scent seems permanent in his nose. He looks down, eyes a little bleary, and there is still quite a lot of blood on his shirt, though it's dry now. Some of what he thinks is blood might actually be dirt, what with the way it's caked on to the fabric, but right now he's feeling he wouldn't be surprised if it was more human juice than mother nature.

Now Dave does a quick vitals check, making sure all of his limbs are still attached and all his organs are still inside him. He runs his tongue over his teeth, checking to make sure he hasn't lost any. He runs his hands over his body, but all he finds are fading bruises. Shakily, he stands, unsuccessfully trying to brush the dirt from his knees.

How long was he out this time?


	21. In Which There Is Nudity

Dave sits on the edge of the fountain, dreading the task he is about to undergo. It's inevitable, though, if he wants to get around without being questioned by policeman. He tests the water and shivers. Damn.

Well, there's no time like the present, so he glances around a couple times, judges himself to be alone, and starts to peel off his crusty clothes. He dumps the lot in the fountain and swishes them around for a while, then leaves them to soak. He eyes the water warily, then steps in. It's pretty cold, but if he wades around for a while, it starts to get a little bearable. After a few minutes of nervous pacing, he lowers himself into the fountain and begins to scrub the blood and filth off.

For once, Dave seems to have been granted a small amount of good luck; he hasn't seen a single person since he arrived in the park. That's to his advantage, of course—he's nearly been arrested multiple times for doing this sort of thing. But hey, free water. What did they expect to happen?

Dave isn't so fond of the night's moon, though, because it's full and it's giving his now-clean skin a ghostly white glow. He's like a beacon in the middle of a forest and anyone passing by would have no problem spotting him. Nervously, Dave sinks lower into the fountain in an effort to conceal himself, but it's not very big and he's pretty sure that as small as he is, he's still sticking out a good deal.

At this point his body is wracked with shivers, and he thinks it would be best to get out soon. He tries to speed the laundry process along, rubbing his clothes together to try and scrub the blood off. He's gotten most of the heavy chunk off, but the filth has left blotchy red stains all over everything and he's pretty sure they aren't going to come out any time soon. He was out too long for that, way too long, and there's very little hope for salvaging any of his clothes. He'll have to make do because he doesn't actually own any other clothes, but he'll look pretty wretched while he does.

What will Rose think?

Dave quickly decides to try and steal some clothes, any clothes, regardless of colour, just so that he will have something to wear that won't upset her. Or he could tell her the stains were made by ketchup or spaghetti sauce or tomato paste or…any of the other various things he clearly would have had absolutely no contact with. No, alternate clothes is the only proper solution.

Dave stands, shivering in the cold air, and wrings the water out of his clothes. He glances around a few times to make sure no one is around, then gathers his meagre belongings in his arms and scurries deeper in the forest. He decides it's safest to pull on his shorts and hang the rest on tree branches, on the off chance someone comes by. He doesn't think that will happen, though, because people rarely stray from the path and go this deep into the woods. So Dave gives his hanging, soggy clothes one last once-over and sits at the base of his chosen tree between the roots. He leans his back against the trunk, careful not to scrape himself, and closes his eyes.

When Dave wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and he is, at the very least, dry again. He stands, feeling very numb, and takes his clothes from the tree. Without much attention to ritual, he pulls them on and pauses to appreciate just how damn _necessary_ clothes are.

Without much more thought, Dave begins to walk back to the path. His sense of direction is good and it doesn't take him long to find his way. As he walks, he tries to work out the stiffness in his joints, wondering vaguely if he had been out more than a day. It was cold, yeah, but not _that_ cold… But exposure is more than that, and he had spent a good couple of hours in a frigid swimming pool.

Dave keeps his eyes on the gravel of the path as he walks, not really paying attention to where he's going. He's too busy trying to figure out if there's some sort of universal indicator signifying his lights-out moments, something other than stupid, generic things like stiffness. He's trying to decide whether or not he should add this to his running tally of "deaths", but it all seems very cagey and he's not sure if he should count it or not. Was he out, or just asleep? Did he—

"Dave?"

Dave snaps back to attention, looking up to see a horrified John Egbert sitting beside his father on the edge of the very fountain he had spent the last night splashing around in.

"Holy _shit_, Dave, what happened to you?" John is asking, his voice strained with worry. Dave looks down at his stained clothes, feeling completely drained. He then turns his attention back to John, who is clearly waiting for an explanation. Hell, even his father seems concerned.

But they aren't going to get one. Not a real one, anyway. So Dave just forces a smile on his face and prepares to pretend that everything's okay.

"Hey, John."


	22. It's Only a Fleshwound

For a long moment, both parties stare at each other in perfect silence. Then, both father and child rise. John's father takes a step forward, just a little ahead of his son. Outwardly, it seems like a benign, casual movement, but Dave has been in too many fights not to recognize it as an offensive stance. In reply, he steps back, his knees bent slightly, ready to take off at a moment's notice.

"Did you kill someone?" John asks, his voice wavering a little.

"What. No," says Dave, but John's eyebrows knit together at the monotone of his voice. "I didn't," Dave adds.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't fucking do _anything_," Dave snaps.

"Then why are you…why are your clothes like that?"

"I fell down some fucking stairs," Dave says. He's in no mood to try and explain himself to someone wearing the same face as his once-friend. Besides, from what he's heard from Rose, that'd be a perfect way to set the idiot off. "Shit's lethal."

"Dave, tell me what you did."

"I told you, I didn't do anything," Dave says again. John's father takes another step forward, sliding casually further in front of his boy, half blocking him from Dave's view. A tremor runs down Dave's spine but he stands his ground this time, though he crouches slightly lower. John's dad is still smoking his pipe, though, so it can't be too serious. Right? Was that how it worked?

Shit, Dave didn't know.

"David?" John's father finally speaks, his voice low and smooth and level. He's trying to coax Dave into speaking, but it's not going to work.

"Sorry, you've got the wrong guy," Dave growls back. He sees John's dad trying to decide if Dave is supposed to be his doppelganger's brother or something. He doesn't want to be mistaken for that asshole. He's not the same guy. He's not.

"My apologies," John's dad says at length. He's measuring his words carefully, but it won't fool Dave. He knows exactly what's happening. The man is trying to judge how much of a threat Dave poses to his son. Of course he is, Dave's just stepped out of the bushes, white as a ghost and covered head to toe in bloodstained clothes.

"Don't mention it," Dave replies, unable to keep a cocky smirk from spreading across his lips. He's cold and tired and now he's _pissed_ and it's the first real, actual feeling he's felt for a while and he's almost enjoying it.

"Son," John's father is saying now, still calm, still slowly, inconspicuously moving in front of his son. "Are you alright? Are you injured?"

"Right as fucking rain," Dave replies. Hell, John's dad is probably thinking he's some crackhead right about now, if not sooner. Dave can't really blame him, though—he knows he's not exactly the sparkling image of innocence right now. He's a madman and a murderer, or at least that's how he must look. Anyone would think the same. Hell, he'd think the same. He's as guilty as they come and—

Fuck, Dave hasn't even _done_ anything. This is stupid.

"Dave, did you kill someone!" John exclaims a little more forcefully from somewhere behind his father, clearly both frustrated and confused over the unspoken battle between the two men in front of him. To his credit, John's father reaches back and pats his son on the shoulder to both comfort and quiet him. This isn't something John should deal with, not in his state, not when the perfect epitome of mangrit is standing right in front of—

Oh, fucking _damn it_, Dave's committed absolutely no crimes—violent crimes, at any rate—and he's already half blaming himself for something_ that hasn't even happened._

"Do you need to be taken to a hospital?" John's dad asks softly.

"Nope. Not a scratch on me." Dave nearly lifts his shirt to show how _so fucking fine_ he is, but he suddenly sees Rose's face in his mind, scolding him. No, that's not right. She doesn't know, she shouldn't know, but if John finds out, she definitely will, too. So Dave just performs a theatrical shrug, spreading his pale arms wide and gesturing to indicate how healthy he is, how he definitely did _not_ just die for the fourth time this month.

Damn, he should win some sort of zombie-overlord classification at this point. Maybe he could petition for undead rights, get some revenue coming in from all the video games profiting off of his grave crawling brethren—

No, this is stupid. Dave is being stupid and the more stupid he is the more John's dad perceives him as a threat and the worse it will be for John who, for some reason, Dave is supposed to be keeping stable. It's for Rose, yes, of course it's for Rose. Rose has to deal with all the aftermath of whatever is going to happen here because that's the job she's been stuck with. Dave doesn't care about John but he does care about Rose, and if he wants to keep her happy and relatively stress-free, he's not going to stir up shit with her stupid bitchass boyfriend.

Fuck. No, that's not fair either, John was pretty nice to him last time but—

But…

Fuck it. John is looking at him with accusing eyes, already thinking he's killed some dude that doesn't even fucking exist and Dave is sick of it. He's sick of everything. It would have been better if he had just not woken up at all.

He doesn't need this. He doesn't need to deal with this. He doesn't owe John or his father an answer for anything. The only death he's been at fault for is his own, and he's not going to have some pansy rich-boy and his well off dad judging him for being covered in his _own goddamn blood_.

He's done, and that's all there is to say on the matter.

"Peace, motherfuckers. I'm out."


	23. Who is Mysterion?

"Jesus, Dave! Get inside the house before anyone sees you. Do you know how this looks?"

Dave jumps, turning to see Rose standing behind him, her near-perfect poker face almost masking the sparks of anger beneath. Almost, but not quite.

"Chickie, I—" Dave begins, but Rose is having none of it. She grabs his wrist and pulls, dragging him with more force than he would have expected her small frame to be capable of. He relents and lets her lead, and soon she's slamming and locking the front door behind them and breathing a faint sigh of relief.

"Dave, what the _hell_ did you do?" she asks, raising her eyes to meet his. "John told me about your meeting. _Three weeks ago_. Where have you been? And what did you _do_?" She's concerned, so concerned that her voice is breaking out of its usual measured mix of monotone and snark. She looks at him imploringly, waiting for an explanation.

"Hey, chickie, calm down," Dave says, raising his hands palms-out in a display of peace. "Look, I didn't do anything."

"Do you really expect me to believe that? How did you even get this far without being arrested?"

Dave gives an uncomfortable shrug. "Travelling at night, mostly, hiding in the day. I couldn't find any clothes to steal, people haven't started hanging them outside to dry yet."

"Dave, tell me you didn't kill anyone."

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Don't lie to me!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm _not lying_, Rose."

"Dave, John told me that you came out of that forest looking like a murderer. If you didn't kill someone, how in god's name did you get so much blood over yourself?" She moves to touch one of the stains on his chest but quickly seems to realize what she's doing and so pulls her hand away.

"It doesn't matter."

"Dave," she says, voice strange and thick with emotion, "you aren't making yourself seem any more innocent."

"It doesn't matter, chickie, I didn't do anything. I didn't kill anyone. I didn't hurt anyone. You have to believe me," Dave says, touching her arm. She flinches and he quickly draws back. "I didn't."

"Dave, tell me what happened. Please."

She's staring at him with such concern in her eyes, such worry that Dave falters. He raises an arm and rubs the back of his neck, unable to meet her gaze. He doesn't want to tell her, he doesn't want to worry her but she's already worried and he doesn't know what else to do.

"Relax, chickie," he says. "It's my blood."

For a moment, Rose just stares at him. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that, Dave."

"Well, you'll have to. It's true." His lips flick into an annoyed smirk. That defensive feeling is coming back and he's ready to fight again, even if it's Rose, his Rose. "If you don't believe me, test it. Don't you have all that fancy-ass equipment in the lab? Do some cop show wizardry and pull up a match. I guarantee this is all me." He plucks at the fabric roughly, his actions more aggressive than he expected. Rose only seems to vaguely register this, though, so he's in no danger yet. She's not like John's father, at least.

"Dave, that can't be yours. It just can't be."

"It is."

"That doesn't even make sense. How could you possibly be walking? How could you be alive?"

He shrugs dismissively. "All games have glitches. It's mine, chickie."

"Dave, I…I'm sorry, I can't look at you. You have to change. Please."

"Sure, sure." He reaches out to put a reassuring hand on her head, but she shrinks away. She's serious. So Dave follows her upstairs and accepts the old John clothes and waits as she pulls the bedroom door closed behind her on her way out. He then shrugs off his own stained and damaged clothes, pulling on the clean ones. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he has to admit, he looks at least 50% less murdery than before. At least this new garb doesn't show off the rewards of his accidentally self-inflicted bloodbath.

With one last long look, Dave decides to simply toss the clothes in the garbage. He throws them haphazardly into Rose's garbage bin, knowing that if she really wants to send off for a blood test or some shit, she'll still have the evidence.

Not that it matters, of course. He already knows the answer.

Dave finds Rose sitting in the kitchen, leaning over a cup of tea with her head in her hands. He pulls up a chair beside her and they sit in silence.

"Is it really your blood?" she asks at last.

"Yeah."

Rose sits up and turns to face him, her poker face back in place and her voice smooth as velvet. It's fake as hell, but she's trying to move on. "Where were you wounded?"

Dave pauses, unsure of how to answer. The truth of the matter is that he honestly doesn't _know_. He wasn't conscious long enough to take inventory and when he woke up, all he had to show for it were bruises. "I'm not sure, chickie."

"Yes, your cover story shines with remarkable clarity."

"I'm not fucking lying!" Dave exclaims. Now there's emotion in his voice, raw with disuse but he's too tired to care. He wants her to just _believe_ him but he knows there's no way that's going to happen. It just looks too bad.

"John said you said you were fine when he saw you."

"Yeah. I did say that."

"Were you lying?"

"Yes. No. Unrelated circumstance." Dave waves his hand absently but Rose shoots him a glare and he knows he's not supposed to be playing it so flippantly. "Sorry."

"Take off your shirt."

At this, Dave nearly laughs. "What?" he says, so bewildered that he himself finds it hilarious.

"If you were hurt badly enough to leave that much blood, there must be a scar to prove it." Her hands are already gripping the bottom of his shirt and he knows he has to move fast.

"Stop," he commands, snaking his strong fingers around her wrists and pulling them away.

"Let go of me!" Rose shouts. Dave is shocked at this and quickly releases her. The terror in her eyes is infectious and now he's scared, too. He's screwing up already, he's screwing up so much and he doesn't know what his next move should be. Maybe he should just show her. Maybe he could lie and say what's on his stomach is the cause, because there are no other scars on his body and, hell, it's big enough to look convincing.

But he can't.

If it were any other person, maybe, and maybe they'd believe him. But Rose played the game too, and she would know.

"I'm sorry," Dave says quietly. "I didn't mean to—I—shit. Look, chickie, just cool it on the hands, ok. You being grabby is the last thing that needs to happen here and honestly, it wouldn't help my case anyway. I don't have any scars."

"Dave, I'm finding it really, really hard to believe that you're innocent."

"I know." Dave sighs and now it's his turn to put his face in his hands. "I know. I know how this looks. Fuck."

"Please. Please, Dave, help me out here," Rose begs. He's never heard her beg before, but she's obviously terrified and if he tries his conventional comfort, he'll just scare her more.

"Alright," he says at last. "Alright. I'll tell you. But I swear to god, it's not going to help. You're not going to believe it."

"I can believe a lot."

"Not this." He shakes his head. "But I'll tell you. Look, a while back, I was riding possum-belly on a train and I fell off."

"You fell off a train."

"Yeah."

"A moving train?"

"Yeah."

"And somehow, you survived."

"Yeah. No. Look, let me tell the fucking story, alright?" Dave rubs his temples roughly with his forefinger and thumb. "I fell off. Rolled down some rocks and bushes and, I dunno, some awful hill. I landed ass-skywards but I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. There was a shitload of blood and it was everywhere but I had no idea where the fuck it was coming from because, I guess, everything hurt and I wasn't really in the place to be thinking. Then I blacked out. When I woke up again, all I had were bruises and bloodstains."

"That is…quite unbelievable."

"I told you, chickie."

"And you don't have a single scar to prove it?"

"Nope. I just woke up again. I am the Mysterion, he is me."

Rose sighs and leans over her tea again, processing his story. Then, she stands. "I am going to speak with my mother. You may stay the night, Dave, but do not leave this house. Preferably, do not leave that couch." She points to the living room and Dave nods brusquely.

"Got it."

"Thank you," she says stiffly, her eyes lingering on him before she turns on her heel and disappears somewhere into the house, clearly searching for her mom. Dave drags himself to his feet and shuffles over to the sofa. He throws himself down and stares at the ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve such a fucked up sentence.

_I don't belong here,_ Dave thinks.

_Just let me go._


	24. Carnivalesque

Dave doesn't move from the exile couch. He sits there for at least an hour before Rose appears again, looking rather pale. She stands somewhere behind him, just out of reach, and this time Dave knows it's calculated.

"Hey, chickie." After the initial glance back, he decides it's best not to face her. He doesn't want to startle her. From now on, movements must be slow and deliberate, with plenty of warning. It's her turn to play the frightened animal.

"You understand the situation I'm in, don't you?" she asks. Dave detects a faint waver in her voice and he nods a little. "You come to my house three weeks after John says you might have killed someone, and then you tell me a ridiculous story and become angry when I try to help you back it up with evidence. This is a difficult situation for me to be in, Dave."

"What, did you want me to come a day after John told you I killed someone," Dave asks, the trained flatness creeping back in his voice. He doesn't care if it makes him look more like a psychopath, he's tired and it's one of his few allowed defences. "Would that have made a difference."

The floorboards creak and Dave can tell she's shifted her weight back, changing stance. "I don't know."

Dave leans forward, clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees and forehead pressed to his thumbs. He can't fix this. He's broken everything and he can't fix this. "For what's it's worth," he says, "I'm sorry, chickie."

"Alright."

Dave winces at the reply by he knows it's justified. Rose doesn't have to forgive him. She doesn't even have to _trust_ him. He doesn't know why he's hoping for it so badly when all logic dictates she not do so. "Do you want me to leave," he offers.

"No," she replies immediately. "You are staying."

He nearly snorts to himself. What did he expect? "Yeah, alright. Gotta keep me on lockdown until you decide whether or not to call the police. Can't really blame you, I guess. Hobos aren't the most trustworthy lot, telling lies and being rowdy. You've gotta do what you've gotta do."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Rose says, and she's sounding very strained. If Dave wasn't so trapped, he would have held her. Pet her head. Tried to comfort her, coax the stress from her system. But Dave is the source of the problem and all that would do is terrify her more. "I am trying very hard right now to believe you did not kill someone, alright?"

"I know," he replies. "I didn't, chickie." Then, he sighs. He's so out of options, only the ridiculous come to mind. "But…I guess, I get that it's hard to believe. I can't really prove anything." He raises his head, turning ever so slightly, orange eyes flicking to rest on Rose. "Unless you want to run me through right now?" The faintest ghost of a smirk plays across his lips. "That's not really a good option either."

"I am not going to kill you," Rose replies.

"Yeah," says Dave, facing forward again. "I didn't think you would."

"I'm just…confused," she admits.

"That makes two of us," he agrees. It's not like he _knows_ why it happens, other than maybe he did something bad and maybe the game is trying to take its revenge for a rectified session. He leans back, resting his hand lightly on his stomach, not enough to draw attention but enough that it helps calm him down. Rose is trying, but Dave's trying too. He's trying very hard not to get mad because he knows that she's right, that everyone's right, that he looks so bad right now and nothing he does is helping. He knows this but he's tired and he doesn't want to deal with it anymore because _for fuck's sake, it's his blood, he's being punished for dying._

"Dave, this is strange to me, alright? And I don't know what to think."

"I know," he says. "It's alright. Take your time. I won't do anything." He raises his hands again, palms out in peace, but he knows all Rose can see is the pale backs of his hands.

"...Alright," she says. She does sound confused, though she's trying to mask it. And scared.

"Cool." Finding he's tired of fighting, he draws his legs up on the couch and topples carelessly over until he's resting in a little ball. He curls his arms around his knees and tucks his face in, hiding from the world he can't escape.

"…I suppose I'm sorry."

"For what." Dave knows the answer but he wants to make her say it.

"For not believing you."

Raising his head a little, Dave lets his gaze trail over the coffee table. "It's alright," he says at length. "I know it looks." He pauses. "And how it sounds."

"Have a good rest, Dave."

"…yeah." Dave tries to keep his monotone, but for this first time he's unable to keep it steady. His voice breaks mid-word and all he sounds is pathetic.

"…Dave?"

"Yeah."

"Are you…alright?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he lies. He gives a little cough, trying to clear his throat to allow easier passage for the lies.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nah, chickie, everything is peachy." With smoothness comes dullness, though, and he sounds like he's reading from a script. "I'm on house arrest because my lil sis thinks I killed a guy when all I did was fall off a train and get caught trying to clean up by her boyfriend. Life's fucking _grand_."

"I don't…" She trails off, trying to gather her thoughts. "It's just strange to me, Dave. I'm not wrong."

"It's fine, chickie." Flat. Flat and dull and lifeless. _Ha_. Lifeless.

"You seem to be upset."

Well, no shit. "Not at you."

"That doesn't mean I cannot help." The floor creaks again and, to Dave's muted surprise, he realizes she's taken a step closer.

"That doesn't, yeah." He laughs humourlessly and sits up. "I don't even know what I have to do, chickie. I don't think you can help. I don't even know what to say to you."

"…I don't think I know what to ask." She sighs. "But I m here, alright, Dave?"

"Yeah," says Dave. "You're there. I'm here. I won't do anything."

"I'm here with you, I thought." Dave registers the hurt in her voice but he's too late to do anything about it. "I suppose not."

In what Dave knows is another aggressive gesture, he leans back and rests his arm along the back of the couch, turning to face her. "You're scared, aren't you?" he poses, eyes narrowed in irritation. He's trying to be _nice_ here, trying to keep from pushing her outside her comfort zone. She could give him a little slack and cut the kicked puppy act. "I'm not going to make you sit next to a killer."

"And, as I said, I am revising that opinion." She pauses. "Though statements like that do not help your case."

Dave shrugs. "I might as well be at this point. Whatever." He shakes his head. "Does that mean you'll sit with me."

"Do you want me to sit with you?"  
>"Will you?"<p>

"…Yes."

And now Dave has to fight his voice from breaking again as he says the word he's rarely uttered, the weakest word in the dictionary. "Please?"

Slowly, carefully, Rose walks around and sits beside him on the couch. In reply, he ever so slowly reaches over and touches her hand, trying to show he won't hurt her.

"Did it hurt?" she asks.

"What, falling off a train." Rose flashes him a well-refined look of exasperation and he sighs. "Yeah. Sort of. I mean, it happened pretty fast, and when I stopped rolling I was still pretty much in shock. So it hurt, like everything hurt, but I didn't really know what hurt and I was mostly just tired. And then I went lights out before I guess my brain or body reacted or whatever."

After a moment of deliberation, Rose gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry it happened."

"It's alright," he replies. "It's my fault." He knew how dangerous riding possum-belly was and he did it anyway, and on an empty stomach at that. There were few ways his ride could have ended and, in his opinion, he had pretty much achieved the good end.

"I'm still sorry."

Dave reaches up and pats her head gently. "I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes. You are."

He sighs and drops both his hand and his gaze. "…Sorry I grabbed you before, chickie."

"I…You're forgiven."

Dave finds himself at her face again, his fingers brushing stray strands of hair back to their proper place. She looks tired, too. "I shouldn't have been so rough. You're a good girl."

"Just be careful in the future."

"I will," he agrees. "And maybe don't try to strip me at random."

"I was looking for scars."

"I know," he says, trying to word his sentences properly. "Just. Be careful, alright?"

"I am careful."

"I can't go showing you everything all at once. Just trust me when I say I don't have any scars from that, alright? See, look at my arms—I'm pretty sure those got pretty cut up, too." He raises his arms for her inspection and her violet eyes flick over them. "No scars."

"…Okay."

"There's a good lil chickie." He pats her head again and she makes an expression of purest discomfort. Quickly, he pulls away. "…Sorry. I'll stop touching you."

"It is just for now," she says. "I am understandably a bit shaken by the situation, hm?"

"Yeah. I know." Dave turns to face the front. He's done. He's not going to make her suffer this any longer. "I'll be good. It's alright. You're released." He waves his hand in dismissal and she raises an eyebrow.

"Released? I am not the one under house arrest."

"No," he agrees. "But you're the one sitting on the couch with the guy who is."

Rose sighs again and stands. "Take care of yourself, Dave. Get some rest. I'll be upstairs, should you need me."

"Yeah." Back to monotone. "Night, chickie."

"Good night, Dave."

As Rose retreats back upstairs, Dave flops over and curls into his little ball again. With a second thought, he reaches over and pulls a blanket over him. He's not cold, but it will give him some cover if his shirt rides up during the night.

Not that he anticipates sleep. He may be tired, but he's upset and that always overrides whatever exhaustion he feels. His body thinks it means he's not safe, and so he's wired and there's nothing he can do to fight it.

No, there will be no sleep tonight.


	25. Cooked Bread

At nine o'clock, Dave's eyes are burning with exhaustion and his mind is starting to feel fuzzy. He's used to it, of course—he's spent many nights awake, hiding from various unsavoury folks—but he can't say he enjoys it. He stays very still, head bowed slightly, slouching against the arm of the couch. He doesn't want to move, to scare any of the occupants. Every action must be slow and deliberate and nonthreatening.

But right now, he doesn't even need to move, because no one is near and therefore he has no reason to. So he sits and stares and he listens to the kitchen clock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Socked feet padding down the stairs, the creak of floorboards and the draw of breath.

"…Dave?" Rose asks faintly. "Are you dead?"

"What," says Dave. "No." Then, "I don't anticipate dying in this house, unless, I guess, your mom shoots me or something."

"You are barely moving at all. Are you even breathing?" He hears her come closer. She's near now, but he won't turn around. He won't startle her.

"Just trying to make it clear I'm not going to do anything to you guys or your house," he replies.

There is silence for a few moments as Rose considers him. "Did you sleep?"

"Did you," he replies.

She sighs and the rustle of fabric indicates she's shaken her head. "You avoided the question. I'll take that as a no."

Dave performs a rather skilful slow-motion shrug. "Yeah."

More silence.

Then, action. There's a hand on his shoulder, just barely, fingertips resting lightly against him. He's the one to be surprised now, and before he can stop himself, he flinches away. Rose draws her hand back and he curses himself in his thoughts.

"If it helps, I do believe you, Dave. After careful thought, I am going to trust you are not a killer."

"…thanks," Dave replies, not fully trusting his voice. "I'm glad."

"You're welcome," she says. "Now go to sleep."

"I'm alright."

Rose leans back, watching him carefully. "…Are you certain?"

"Yeah." Dave nods slightly, but knows the gesture won't be lost on her. "I don't sleep much. There are conditions that need to be met, I guess."

"I guess so," she agrees uncertainly. "Do you want food?"

Dave considers this for a moment. It's been so long since he's eaten, but…he probably can't. Or he just doesn't need to. His stomach is neither full nor empty because really, all he feels is sick. "…nah, it's ok. You eat, chickie."

"I am offering to make you something as I prepare my own meal."

"I know," says Dave. "I'm ok."

"When was the last time you ate?"

It takes Dave a minute to remember. "Uh. Tuesday." The newspaper had said Tuesday so it was a Tuesday, but he doesn't remember which Tuesday and he definitely can't remember what day it is now. He wonders why she even bothered to ask, her time is different than his time and he's not really sure how it accomplishes what she wants, which is to get him to eat.

But Rose is just watching him and, when he turns to glance at her, he sees that her brows are knit together in a look of concern. "…Do you want toast?"

"I…" Dave almost argues but he succumbs. He doesn't want to worry her and he knows that skipping meals will scare her, whether she says it or not. "Yeah, sure. Fine."

"Good."

"Thanks."

"It is not a problem." Rose turns and sweeps out of the room. Dave just sits on the couch, feeling very awkward and not very sure of what to do. Normally, he would have followed her into the kitchen, but that's not an option today. So he sits and waits and feels like a useless asshole.

Rose returns shortly with a plate of buttered toast. "Here." She offers it to him and he takes it, looking down at the food he didn't really want but now has to eat.

"Thanks." He nibbles on the corner of one of the slices, figuring an effort is better than nothing. His throat isn't really working right and it's a fight just to swallow, but Rose seems to be worrying a little less.

"You're welcome."

When he's done a quarter of a piece, he sets it down on the plate and looks up. "You ate, right, chickie?"

"Mm," says Rose.

Now it's Dave's turn to be concerned and his eyes narrow slightly. "Did you?" he repeats.

"Yes."

"Good." Dave isn't really sure whether he believes her, but today is not his day to push her on it. He just hunches over the plate, trying to force the food down into his complaining stomach. Rose disappears for a few minutes and returns with a glass of milk, which he downs eagerly to try and push the last of the toast down. He sets it on the coffee table with a satisfying _clink_ and wipes his mouth.

Rose is still watching him, judging his actions. It's uncomfortable to be under this sort of scrutiny, but he wants her to be okay with him around. The more innocent he makes himself, the faster it will go.

"I am going out for a while," Rose announces suddenly. "Don't go anywhere, hm?"

Dave opens his mouth to speak, but she brushes her fingertips across his hair as she leaves the room and he's too distracted to remember what he was going to say. He just pulls his knees to his chest and waits for the resounding _thunk_ and _click_ of the front door closing and locking, then rests his cheek against his crossed arms.

It takes a while, but sleep finally catches up with him.


	26. Crow Tangerine Power Makeup!

When Dave wakes up, the clock has already struck four and Rose is still nowhere in sight. He wonders if he should call out, but decides against it. Instead, he stretches his stiff legs out and flexes his sore muscles. He's seen no sign of Rose's mother, but he knows she's lurking somewhere. Perhaps she's in the lab.

_Click_.

A tremor runs up Dave's spine at the sound of metal on metal, the turning of a lock in a door. He's five years old again, waiting for Bro to come home from work with a fresh pizza in tow. Quickly, Dave shakes the illusions from his head and the hope goes with it. Bro is gone and if he's not careful, Rose will be, too. He has to play his cards right, so he puts on his best poker face. If she comes into the room, that's good. If she ignores him and goes upstairs, well, that's fine too.

But Rose does come into the living room and sits beside him on the couch without a word. She reaches into the white paper bag she's been carrying and pulls out a couple of parcels, then deposits them on Dave's lap. He's too shocked too move, too worried he'll make a mistake. His mind is in overdrive but nothing he's thinking even remotely makes sense so he just takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.

"Chickie, what is…" he begins, but his voice trails off. He's so damn _confused_.

"Merry Christmas," Rose replies. Dave stares dumbly at her for a minute, then at the packages, then at her again.

"Is it…actually Christmas?" he asks. No, it can't possibly be Christmas. Could it? No, it couldn't. Could it? _Oh, for fuck's sake_, Dave thinks. _You're an idiot._

"Christmas is in two weeks," she says.

"Shit," says Dave. "Is it? I thought winter was ending soon." Then, a chill down his back. He has nothing for Rose, of course he has nothing, he has no money. No, that's stupid, he can get things without money if he tries enough. He could pick her another bouquet of flowers. It would be shitty and stupid and—_fuck, if it's Christmas the flowers will all be dead._ "Sorry, chickie," Dave mumbles, head still whirling. "I don't have anything for you."

"I wasn't expecting you to."

"I…thanks." Dave stares down at the parcels again and runs his thumb along the course string. It's like something out of an old movie. He didn't know stores even packaged things like this any more. It was bizarre. It was weird and bizarre and it was _Rose_. It fit so perfectly that he didn't know whether to laugh or cry or throw up.

Rose watches him quietly, as though trying to comprehend a riddle he isn't aware of. "…Do you really not know the month?" she asks, the disbelief subtle in her voice.

"I don't," Dave replies, barely looking up from the gifts, barely registering what she's saying.

"It's March," says Rose.

For a moment, Dave—_old_ Dave, the Dave he used to be but now lived halfway across the country—wanted to say, _"That's after December, right?"_ just to see her reaction. But that's not who he is now, that's someone else. So Dave just sits and contemplates his gifts sadly. "Guess that makes sense. It's been getting a little warmer. I don't freeze as much."

"Open your presents," Rose says gently.

"…Yeah." Dave runs his fingers over the paper again and carefully slides the twine from each parcel. He then proceeds to smooth a thumb under the taped flap and ease it open. He goes very slowly, careful not to damage the paper, though he knows it's cheap and made in bulk. He does this for each package, one at a time, so they're all on the same stage. Dave knows it must be infuriating to watch, but it's been so long since he's been given a present, he can't help but want to savour it. No, he has to savour it. It's not just a choice, it's a necessity.

When he finally runs out of tabs of tape and the paper falls open, he can't help but stare in disbelief. Rose has found him an entire outfit, fresh and new and completely, entirely _orange_. He wants to cry and call her out for making fun of him and both desires seem completely real and completely legitimate but he does neither. He touches the fabric gently, trailing his fingertips across them. This can't be real.

Eventually, Dave finds his voice and utters a strangled, "Holy shit." He grips the clothes a little more tightly now and he's feeling too many things at once. "Chickie…"

"I thought you might like some new clothes of your own."

"Yeah…I… Shit, thank you." He wants to hold the clothes close, to protect them and keep them clean and just _feel_ them but he's to embarrassed. Rose would tease him, too, and that's enough of a deterrent in itself.

Rose doesn't seem to be in a teasing mood, though. She reaches out and smoothes the hair from his face. "You're welcome."

In a brilliant fit of knee-jerk reaction, Dave gives a very long and very loud coo. He drops the clothes and claps his hands to his mouth, cursing. "Fuck!"

The corners of Rose's lips twitch and she rests her hand on his arm. "My, it has been a while since I last heard that."

"Shut up," Dave says, trying to fight the blood from rushing to his face.

"Go change," Rose orders, kindly offering him a way out. "I would like to be certain that they fit."

Dave's attention returns to his new clothes and he nods. "…yeah." He gathers the garments in his arms and walks rigidly to the bathroom, trying to walk neither too slow nor too fast because he doesn't want to show how excited he is. He curses at himself with every step, of course, because he knows they're just clothes and he's acting like he's an over-stimulated kid on Christmas morning.

But then…that's what he is, isn't he?

Dave brushes his thoughts away and shuts the bathroom door behind him, locking it and dragging his shirt up his torso at once. He pulls off John's old clothes and quickly pulls on his new ones, _his_ clothes, his orange clothes. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and can't help but admire the fit. He may have spent years as a hobo, but he still has taste. He runs his hands over the jeans, admiring the thickness. They're durable, that's good. And the shirt, the shirt is thicker than before, it might resist all the tears the old one fell victim to. He has new shoes, too, so he won't have to deal with all the holes and cracked soles of the previous incarnation.

Dave gives a little hesitant smile at his reflection, and the expression seems foreign on his face. He drops it quickly, startled. He always thought he'd be used to his new face, pale and slightly freckled under a mess of orange hair, but he's not. He's never gotten used to it and now his expressions just amplify the ridiculousness.

Nevertheless, he has to admit that he looks pretty good. At least, he doesn't look like a murderous hobo anymore, and really, that's an improvement. Dave gathers John's old clothes and takes them to Rose's room, depositing them in her laundry hamper before he returns to the living room couch.

"They fit," he announces, though rather awkwardly. He's not sure how to stand now, and he can feel the blush creeping over his face. _God dammit, stop being so flustered, you're a Strider._ "Thanks, chickie."

Rose regards him from the couch and the corners of her mouth slowly start to turn up in her amused smirk of a smile. "Your face is all red."

"Shut up," he shoots back, rubbing the offending area but only making it worse.

"Heh. Embarrassed?" she chuckles.

Dave chooses to ignore her this time and flops down beside her, bouncing slightly on the cushions. "This is really nice. I…thanks."

"You're welcome."

Dave glances over at her, studying her face. "…Are you still scared of me?"

"No," she replies, folding her arms. "The blushing is certainly working in your favour for that."

"Jesus, don't look at me," Dave snaps. He feels like he's sticking out too much now, he's a shining beacon that it took years of grime to dull. The attention makes him nervous.

"Not even a little?" she prods.

"You're going to make fun of me."

"Teasing only, I assure you," she replies. She's still wearing her half-smile, but her eyes give a little twinkle. She enjoys watching him squirm. Really, nothing's changed.

"Yeah, alright, fine," Dave relents.

"Besides," she continues, "you seem rather happy."

"…yeah." Dave looks down at himself again, touching the fabric. "This means a lot to me. Thank you."

"I'm sorry there was no orange scarf for you."

Surprised, Dave glances up at her. "It's alright," he says quickly. "This is a lot. Really. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Slowly, he reaches out to touch her arm. "I…I'm sorry I scared you. You believe me, right? I didn't do anything." He tries to keep the strain from his voice, but he's desperate for her to trust him. He can't lose her. He can't.

"I believe you," she assures. "And I'm sorry I didn't earlier."

This puts Dave's mind at rest a little and he leans back. "…it's alright. I know how it looks."

"I'm glad you didn't."

"I didn't what?" Dave asks. _Die?_

"Kill someone."

"I…I'm not a killer, chickie. I'm not. I've seen enough 'me's die—hell, _I_'ve died enough—to know that it's not something that should happen. I wouldn't give anyone else a bad end, chickie, I wouldn't. I'm not the one that dooms timelines, I'm the one who fixes them."

"…You're not a bad man, Dave."

"I'm not," he says, though he knows he's giving himself away in his voice now. He's trying to hard, Striders don't try, they dance through life without a care but _god_, Dave cares a lot right now.

"Or, I suppose. You have your moments," she amends, lips twitching again. "Have you eaten today?"

"…no."

"I'll make something, then."

"I'm alright," Dave says quickly. She's already done so much and he's still not sure he can eat. After the battle that was the morning's toast, he's not sure he could survive another battle.

"It will be light," she says.

"…sorry."

Rose raises her pale eyebrows slightly. "Sorry for what?"

"I don't know. Making you do all this."

"You aren't make me do anything," she replies dismissively. "Don't be so self-centered. I am doing it because I want to."

"Hey, I can't help it. If I'm not self-centered, I don't survive." Dave pauses for a minute, then corrects himself, "Well. I guess that's not true, either." He then laughs a laugh that lies somewhere between bitter and genuine on the scale of amusement.

"…I was just teasing," Rose says, looking rather shocked.

"I know," Dave soothes, giving her hair a little stroke. "You're sweet, chickie. Really."

"I'll go make you something to eat." Rose rises, still looking rather disoriented.

Dave pauses, but allows her distance. "Thanks. Do you need help?"

"No," she says firmly.

Dave raises an eyebrow, but doesn't push it. "Alright." He can almost see the events of his last cooking fiasco play through her mind.

"Wait here," she orders. "I will return."

"Thanks."

Once Rose is out of sight, Dave returns to appreciating his new garb. He gives another brief, alien smile and thinks that maybe, he won't lose his sibling this time, after all.


	27. Questioning Life Choices in the Bathroom

"Where are you? You're a horrible brother."

Dave barely registers the words from his distance, but they prick his ears all the same. He glances back in the direction of the house, though he can't see it from where he sat. With a last, fleeting look at the new fowl friends he had gained, he hopsfrom his resident branch and lands at the foot of the tree, the dry leaves crunching under his feet upon impact.

Deciding it's best for his continued state of innocence, Dave flashes his way back to the house in great bounds, returning in record time. He skids to a halt before her—he had never been good at stopping—and manages to cough out a not-so-smooth, "Sorry, chickie. I'm back now."

"You disappoint me," Rose says, raising her eyebrows slightly and moving to unlock the front door.

Dave leans back a little, mouth set in poker face. "Sorry."

"Mm," she replies, pushing the door open, "I'll find it in my heart to forgive you if you make it up to me."

Dave hesitates. "What do you want me to do."

"I haven't yet decided," she says.

"…yeah, alright."

Rose gives a fleeting smile and pats her brother on the head. "Do not fear. I am not too offended."

"Alright," says Dave. "Sorry."

"Mm, as I said, I will forgive you." The smile turns to amused smirk on her lips. "Eventually."

"Yeah…I know." Dave knows she's only teasing, but teasing isn't something he's good at. He takes everything too seriously and he's not sure how to stop. He wants to be able to laugh it off, he really does, but he's so tired of fighting, regardless of medium. That's what Rose's teasing is, after all; it's a battle of wits, and Dave's lost the drive to keep up.

"Don't be so down," she says gently, guiding him back to the living room couch.

"I'll try not to," Dave says, voice tinged with earnest. He'll try, yes, he'll try, but he doesn't know how far "try" will take him. He begins to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, keeping it low, but still enamoured by its freshness.

Rose watches him do this for a while, deep in contemplation. "Would you like another scarf?"

Immediately, Dave drops the shirt. "You don't have to," he says quickly.

"I do have an excess of wool and yarn. I could make another."

Dave opens his mouth to speak, but pauses. "Isn't all of your yarn purple."

"No," she says in mock offense. "Some of it is _black._" And then the smirk is back on her lips, and Dave has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes, regardless of what she can see through his tinted perspective.

"It's fine," he says. "I'm alright. You already got me new clothes."

"Well, you _needed_ new clothes," she replies. "I can't have my brother running streets in rags, can I?"

"Yeah, but…I dunno, it's still…" But Dave's cheeks are flushing red now and he can't gather his thoughts. He's so disgustingly embarrassed by all this, by his inability to provide even basic things for himself. That he has to rely on his kid sister for everything.

"The least I can do for you is to provide you with the most base necessities, such as clothing. I will knit you a scarf," she says, and her mind is made up.

That doesn't mean Dave can't try to dissuade her, though. "You've done a lot for me. You don't have to do more, I don't want to always be mooching off you."

"I do not consider giving my brother a roof, a meal and new clothes 'mooching'. So do not worry."

"I can't help it," Dave blurts. "It's—it's more than I've ever gotten since I came back."

She takes a moment to let this sink in, her lips pursed in thought. "Ah. Yes. I suppose it would be."

Dave takes to fiddling with his clothes again. "Yeah."

"…Do you like the clothes?" she asks, all honey and kindness. It's weird, but it's not Bro-weird, and he thinks he might be able to get used to it. She doesn't do it often, at least, and it's not like she knows. She's just being nice.

"Yeah," Dave mumbles. "They're…they're nice."

"They are just simple attire. I thought you might enjoy the hue." The corners of her mouth flick up and she's still smirking that funny little smirk, but he thinks she might be doing it to hide a smile. Maybe she likes doing things for him.

Dave shudders at the thought. He was supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around. She wasn't the needless double in this scenario. She doesn't have to be the one to rend her own little place in this world.

"Yeah," he says, and now he feels the blush creeping from his cheeks across his face and over his ears, down his throat. Fuck this body. Fuck its stupid reactions. "I feel a lot better."

She gives a tinkling little laugh. "Oh yes? You prefer orange?"

Annoyed, Dave flattens his voice, reaching the epitome of passivity hinting irritation. "Does that surprise you."

"Completely," she says, giving a theatrical raise of the eyebrows, her go-to in expression management. "I pegged you for mauve."

"Yeah," says Dave. "That sounds fucking logical."

Rose ignores him, opting instead to tuck the tag of his shirt back in its place. "It doesn't look bad on you."

"Yeah, for the same reason fashion models get work. I'm a goddamn clothes hanger."

"Shh," she scolds. "I am just trying to say you are not looking to terrible."

Dave can't help but raise his own eyebrow, just the one, a fishhook expression of consternation. "Thanks. I guess."

"You are welcome." She smoothes back loose strands of hair from his face and he leans in slightly, giving a very involuntary but equally quiet coo. He hates himself for it, but it garners a little, mischievous smile from her, so maybe he hates it a little less.

"Thanks for everything, chickie." He's grateful, he's so grateful. Why is he always such a fucking dick about everything? God_damn_.

"You are welcome." She sighs. "I suppose it is also a small apology for earlier. You are not that bad of a person."

"I'm not, chickie, I'm really not. I wouldn't do that. I don't—I wouldn't," he says, words spilling from his mouth before he can dam them back up.

"I believe you. Alright?" She brushes his carroty hair with her fingers again. "You are not in the wrong here."

He gives a little nod, the panic that he had felt so briefly now being replaced with another heaping portion of embarrassment. Shit. "Yeah…sorry."

"Still," she says, dropping her hand and leaning back, a clinical air suddenly about her. "It has been quite a while since I saw so much blood. I am glad I was able to make you more suitably dressed."

Dave gives a short croak of laughter, sounding much more like a crow in his cynicism than he had meant to. "If you think that's a lot, you should've seen it before I washed it." He softens again, touching her hand. "I'm grateful, chickie." Then, he mimics her joking smirk. "Now I won't have people trying to frame me for murder."

"Well, I should keep you from getting caught for crimes you didn't commit. And I'm certain John would appreciate knowing you did not murder some hapless stranger."

Dave snorts. "Would he even believe me."

"Of course he would. I will explain it to him, as well."

At this, Dave nearly bursts into a fit of cruel laughter. Instead, he contains himself, instead shooting her the eyebrows-raised look of slight disbelief. He's glad he mastered the art of blank-face years earlier. He doesn't think Rose would appreciate the expression he's wearing on the inside. "You're _really_ going to tell him I _died_?"

"…Alright, perhaps not. Not yet."

"Yeah, I thought so."

Rose's own brows knit together in concern and she looks at Dave with almost frustration. "John has a lot to handle right now. But he isn't stupid. I think he'd understand."

"Him better than anyone else, right?" Dave falters for one brief sentence, his perfect mask slipping, his pointed words giving him away. Quickly, he coughs, and says, "Whatever. He can think I'm a murderer if he wants."

"He doesn't want to think that!" Rose snaps. Dave doesn't blame her, certainly not now that she's seen the petty person underneath his shameful façade. "You haven't given him many other options!"

"And I don't have many options to _give_," Dave replies, trying and utterly failing to keep his voice level. He's never been so bad at this before. It must be because it's Rose, his link, his favourite person. Only she is important enough to draw such reactions from him. "Or did you want me to tell him what I told you?"

"No," she orders. "You are not allowed to tell him, alright?" Now she's the one faltering, her commanding tone shaking. "It would…he couldn't handle it. I'll figure something out."

"Thought so." Dave leans back against the couch, both arms and legs crossed, an iron fortress.

"Dave…I can't lose him."

"What part of what I'm saying makes you think I'm going to go over and fuck shit up?" Dave asks through gritted teeth. "I didn't tell him then because I knew what would happen. I sure as _hell_ won't do it now. It may come as a shock to you, but if he makes you happy, I don't actually want him to die."

"…I wasn't trying to say you'd tell him. I just wanted to be sure you wouldn't. I am not always out to belittle you, Dave. I am merely trying to be certain."

"Yeah, well, those two things come across as pretty much identical." To be honest, Dave can't even see a single difference between them. If she has to make sure, that means she doesn't trust his word. It's as simple as that.

Not that he needs confirmation, really. Why _should_ she trust him? She's not bound to him at all, not like he is to her. She's got others, friends and family. She doesn't need this the way he does.

"Look," he says, trying to level out again. "It doesn't matter. I probably won't see him again, anyway, so you don't have to worry. And if I do, well, I dunno what I'll say but it won't be the one thing that'll set him off. I'm not that dumb."

"Dave, just…I get it. You don't want to see him."

Rose's heartbroken voice gives Dave a moment's pause. "Isn't it better if I don't? Chickie, me just existing fucks shit up. I'm pretty sure being around him would just bring up a bunch of bad memories and then he'd get worse and you wouldn't be happy."

"I don't know, Dave. He seemed worried enough at the fact you might have killed someone. But I don't know if he'd be worse or better, alright?" She turns her face to him, eyes all pleading and trapped.

Dave sighs, relenting, as if to say _fine_. "What other explanation is there?"

"He might have been worried about you a bit. I don't think he dislikes you."

"Doesn't mean he trusts me." Dave sets his jaw and touches her hand again. "Chickie, I…I don't hate him, alright."

"You…gave me a reason to trust you. You've given me one. And I know he doesn't hate you either." There's a hint of hopefulness in her voice. Damn, she must really want peace between the factions.

"I don't know how."

"Just…go see him. Or say something small. Or look after me. John might understand."

They fall into silence as Dave watches her for a while. He reaches out to touch her cheek, a reconciliatory gesture. "I'll try."

"Please."

"I'm going to give him space for a while, though. I don't know what I'd tell him and I don't want to fuck up. You don't need that to deal with."

"That's alright," she allows. "Just please. Try and see him again. For me."

"You want me to see him?" He already felt this was her aim, but even so, to hear it spoken allowed is just plain weird.

"I just…you aren't a bad person. He didn't mind seeing you. Not that first time."

He pats her head comfortingly. "You want us to be friends, huh?"

"I want you to get along."

"It's alright, chickie. If you want me to, I promise I'll see him again. This time without the blood. Hopefully without the blood, at least."

"I'm certain you will. Just be careful when you go. If not, come back to me and we'll get you cleaned up."

"Alright." He rubs her hand gently with his thumb, trying to coax forgiveness. "I will."

In reply, she gives his hand a squeeze. "Thank you."

'There's my chickie. It's alright."

"Just…thank you for trying. It means a lot."

Dave breaks his defensive posture and pats her head placidly. "Anything for my chickie." He sighs, trying to form sentences around the words in his head. "He's not…he's not a bad guy."

"No, he isn't. He's just…in a bad place in his life."

At that, Dave puts his arm around her. "Yeah. I can tell."

She leans in, just a little, but enough for him to know he's doing his job. "He's just…so stressed. But he's trying, Dave. And I know you'll be gentle. Just try not to bring up the game."

Dave rubs her arm gently. "You seem pretty stressed, too."

"It's different. He has a mental disorder. He can't eat because he's too busy having flashbacks and stressing and worrying and I'm just…tired."

"Shh, chickie. I know. It's alright. Just relax. You can't get burnt out over this. It's not good for you and it won't help him."

"I'm trying, Dave. I'm trying so hard. But he needs me and I can't get them to help because they won't look after themselves."

"It's alright, chickie, I'm right here." He brushes her face with his palm, trying to soothe her, to fix things. "I'll help you, alright? I'll take care of you."

"I'm just trying to help them and I can't be like them, Dave." To his surprise, she turns abruptly and buries her face in his chest. Despite his shock, however, he runs her hand over her back, petting her, trying to be as damn comforting as he can. "I'm sorry. I need…I just need a moment."

"Sh, chickie. It's alright." The petting turns into a gentle, rhythmic backrub, the kind his Bro gave him so many years ago when he was up sick with a tummy ache. "Take as long as you need. I'm here. You can talk to me and lean on me. I'll protect you."

Her voice is muffled and oddly quiet against him. "…really?"

"Really."

"But…I can't just force you to listen to me. And you don't stay for long periods of time."

"You're not forcing me, chickie. It's my turn to do something nice for you." He pauses, contemplating the tiny girl nestled against him. "And, I dunno, I can try and visit more."

"…I would like that. I wouldn't mind having you around a little more."

"Alright." He presses his lips to the top of her head, sealing the deal. "I'll stick closer to here."

She slides her arms around him and hugs him. "You're…you're kind to me, Dave. Thank you."

Another little coo makes its way out of his throat before he can strangle it back down. A little flustered, he manages, "There's my good lil chickie. I've got you."

She squeezes him tighter, clinging to him like a life preserver. "Thank you, Dave."

"It's the least I can do." He simultaneously runs a hand down her hair and contorts his muscle, trying to release himself slightly from her ironclad grip. She's pretty close to his stomach and he doesn't want to slip up. "Besides, I think you've earned it, taking care of—what—three sick kids."

"…Yes. Three." She pauses, as if coming to her senses, and lets go. She sits up slightly, running a hand through her hair, smoothing it back into place and seeming almost dazed. "I seem to have recovered."

Dave keeps up the little backrub, though, because it's what Bro did and he's the big brother now. "It's alright. You can rest. It's just me."

She fidgets slightly, the first time he's ever seen her anything but refined, and she mutters, "You're warm, Dave."

"Don't worry, I'm not sick," he says, as though this is the obvious conclusion she's drawn. It might be, for all he knows, but it's safest to assume.

"You're just warm in general?"

"Yeah," he says. "Always."

"It's nice."

"Glad you enjoy it." He pats her head again.

"Mm. I am definitely making you a scarf."

Dave laughs, and this time it's pretty genuine, not a crow's croak but a very human sound. "Is that the deal? If I listen to you and help you, I get a scarf?"

"Mm. Yes. That is the deal. Do you accept the terms?"

"Well, I was gonna do it for free, so sure. Sounds good to me."

Rose looks up at him, and for a moment, he thinks she's smiling a real smile, one not hidden behind a sarcastic layer of smirk. "You have a nice laugh."

"And you have a cute smile," he shoots back.

"Shush." But her cheeks tinge a little pink and you know she appreciates it.

Dave chuckles a little and pulls her into a light, one-armed hug. "It's alright, chickie."

"You're not bad, Dave. Thank you."

"Of course I'm not bad," he says, still finding it somewhat surreal that people seem to assume he is.

"It's nice to get to sit with you."

"Yeah. It is." He's missed spending time with family, though it was never like this. He's traded the rough affection and vigorous strifes for something softer, and though it's different it's not inherently bad.

"You know, Dave… If you're ever lonely, you can come by. I want to get to know you better."

"Does that mean you're lonely," he says immediately.

"I never said that."

"Are you."

"…Maybe."

"Are you," he persists, finding it almost a game.

"Fine," she snaps. "Yes. I'm lonely."

Finding amusement in her clear annoyance, he pats her head once more. "Then I'll make sure to fix that."

"Shh."

So Dave just slides his arm back down around her and she leans in. Amusement plays across his lips and he asks, "Gonna coo for me?"

"No."

"Damn," he says.

"I don't coo."

"It'd be easier if you did."

"Easier?" She shifts, turning her face back to him, eyebrows raised. She's clearly asking him for an explanation, but he'd rather she just figure it out herself.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean?"

Dave stifles a sigh. Guess not. "It'd mean I was doing something right."

"…You are doing something right."

He laughs quietly. "Good to know."

She hugs him again, resting her cheek to his chest. "Just let me stay."

"It's your house, chickie. You can do what you want." He brushes his fingers across her head and slides them down to tug his shirt down. Her eyes follow his gesture, but she says nothing.

"Yes, but you are a guest."

"I don't think I qualify for that distinction."

"Oh, no?"

"Nah. Doesn't suit me."

"What would you prefer?"

He shrugs. "I don't really have a preference beyond that." He just doesn't think "guest" works if his classification is "brother". He doesn't need special treatment—certainly not the kind he's been offered by others—and he'd abhor any unnecessary effort put in by his kid sister.

"…I see. Well, you are still welcome here and I will respect what you want."

"I'm good as long as you're happy."

"…Thank you."

His resolve slips and he ruffles her hair, falling into old patterns that belong to his doppelganger and not to him. "You're welcome, chickie. You've earned it."

"I am so glad that you are alright, Dave. I mean it."

"Alright alive or alright not PTSDing the shit out of you."

"…Both, I suppose." Though her voice grows a little icy.

He ignores this and gives her another squeeze. "Yeah, me too, I guess."

Suddenly, she sits up ramrod straight, a look of shock on her face. "I…will return in a moment," she says robotically, standing up quickly and hurrying from the room.

"Uh," says Dave, sufficiently startled by her sudden escape. "Yeah. Sure. Ok."

What.


	28. Rats of Unusual Size

"Do you want me to go?"

The question is harmless. The answer, too, but she doesn't seem to understand that the same way he does.

"No." Rose drops her hands from her face and turns to look at him. "Forgive my rude departure."

"You okay, chickie? You looked kind of…funny." Dave leans on the doorframe, enough to obstruct her path, but not enough to keep her from leaving. He's always careful about boundaries.

"I'm fine, Dave. I just seem to have found myself again." She shakes her head and stray beads of water fall from her hair. "I have put things back into their rightful perspective."

Dave caws a laugh. "Perspective meaning 'who the fuck is this dude I let in my house?'"

"Dave, you have to understand—"

"I do, chickie. It takes getting used to, right? What was it—seven—seven years is a long time for anyone." He leaves out the inevitable _but me_, because he didn't even know seven years had passed beyond the date stamps on old newspapers. For him, time stands still. He's barely grown and nothing but his colours seem to have changed. And, as he is sure, they never will, either.

"I'm sorry, Dave."

"It's alright," he says, and he's not exactly lying. He can't expect things to happen right away. In his mind, it's still Rose, his Rose, from when he knew her. But she's not.

He's the only one stuck in the past and hell, even he's changed. He's not sure he could even give a spin on the old turntable without snapping a disc clean in half now. He's not the same Dave and she's not the same Rose, but somehow, to him, it feels like they are anyway.

And he's being left behind again.

"Dave?"

Dave looks up and sees her, face shining concern, hand half-outstretched to meet him. She doesn't, though, she doesn't touch him this time. She lets her arm drop and stands by the sink, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

"It's alright," he says again. "Look, chickie, I'm just here for you, if you need me. You know, to take care of you."

"To take care of you? Is that all? Simply use you as I would a tool? What then? Do I toss you to the curb once you've done your job?"

Dave shrugs. "If you want."

"That is _not_ the right answer, Dave!"

"There is no right answer, chickie. I'm a glitch in the data. I don't have a purpose." He slides fluidly from his spot, shifting away from the door. "You might as well use that to your advantage."

"What are you saying, Dave?" Her voice wavers.

"I'm just saying you don't have to worry about anything, chickie. I live to serve. Your wish is my command."

"That is utterly stupid, not to mention terribly cliché."

"Sorry, Buttercup. That's just how I am."

"Oh, stop it. Stop your stupid Strider bullshit, I'm absolutely sick to death of it. Do you know how many times I have heard you idiots shielding yourselves with flippant crap like that? Why can't you ever be truthful?" For a moment, Dave things she's going to hurl the soap dish at him. But she doesn't. She just stands there, trembling slightly, somewhere between frustrated and furious.

"I'm not covering," Dave says. "I'm not lying, either. This is fucking serious. This is my goddamn serious face, look." He pulls the shades from his face and tucks them precariously in his back pocket—damn, that's tight. He'll have to be careful not to shatter them running around, or else find a new hiding spot.

Rose regards him carefully and slowly begins to drop her guard. "I…apologize."

"It's cool."

"I don't know what came over me."

"I do," Dave says. "You thought I was someone else."

"I did no such thing!"

But it was obvious. The way she had started panicking, the blatant "you idiots"… No, for a moment, she thought she was dealing with good ol' Dave-Dave, real Dave.

"I didn't…" she repeats.

Dave sighs. "It happens."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it fucking does, so don't fight me on it."

Rose relents, leaning back against the tiled wall. "Do you want to leave?"

"I don't _want_ anything, chickie."

"Yes, yes, 'your wish is my command', dammit, Dave! This is ridiculous."

"Well, I'm a crazy guy."

"Alright. Leave."

Dave watches her for a minute, then nods, eyes closed, and spins on his heel. He's about to make his way to the door when he feels thin fingers close in on his wrist, holding him in place.

"But come back."

He glances over his shoulder and nods. Rose releases him and he pats her gently on the head.

"I'll come back, chickie. Get some rest, alright?"

"I'm not mad at you," she says quickly.

"I know. You're just—"

"Tired."

"Yeah." He pulls her into a gentle hug. "See you, chickie."

"Goodby—"

Before she can finish the sentence, he's gone.


	29. The Eldritch Elder

Torrents of rain splash noisily down the gutters, richoceting off the giant green garbage bin. Dave pushes himself closer to the alley wall, achieving naught but a stream of water down his back. He shivers, pulling his white arms closer to his body, rubbing them in an effort to gleam some semblance of warmth. The surface temperature is above average, of course, but it does nothing to relieve the cold in the pit of his stomach.

Damn. Should've stuck with chickie.

He's beginning to really notice the very wetness of the puddle he's sitting in, the way it pervades his jeans and soaks his boxers. It's damned uncomfortable like this, and he starts to think it would be better to just go out and roll in the goddamn rain and be done with it. At least you don't notice the gross cling as heavily when it's spread across your body.

He's about to rise when he sees an old woman tottering toward him, large umbrella in hand. Usually, he would take no notice of passers-by, but this time is different.

This time, she comes to him.

"Hello, dear," she says. "Awful weather we're having, isn't it? Hoo-hoo!" Her laugh is strange, perhaps a relic of an ancient time, and Dave can't help but stare. She kindly tips her umbrella closer to him, blocking the rain from running down his face and, in return, allowing it to splash the very hem of her old blue dress.

It's not that Dave has never been in a situation like this, because he has; once in a while, he comes across a good samaritan or two (or rather, they come across him). No, this time is different, and there's a flutter in the pit of his belly. He doesn't know what to do, so he presses himself flat against the grit of the rain-slicked brick wall, as though he might feign invisibility.

She purses her lips and lets loose another funny laugh, taking a step closer. "Come now, dear, I don't bite. Be a good little duckie and come out of the rain, there's a good boy."

Dave is quickly calculating an escape route, regardless of his want of shelter. He doesn't know why, but this feels wrong. They're not supposed to meet, they're not, this isn't right.

"No dawdling, now." She reaches down and grasps his wrist with surprising strength for such an old woman, but where she touches him it's warm and he finds himself following. "I have to be getting back to Casper, he doesn't like when his dinner's late. I'll bet his tummy is empty now, and soon he'll be tearing up the house."

"What the hell is a Casper," says Dave. He's long since forgotten the rules of respect and he doesn't give a damn how he comes off to any old biddy off the street.

She doesn't seem to mind, though. "Hoo-hoo! What a ruffian you must be! Casper is my darling kitty, of course. He makes quite a mess of the curtains, though."

"Right." Dave falls into step beside her, wondering briefly if he should hold the umbrella for her before deciding he really doesn't care. They make their way down a winding street and stop in front of an old apartment building. The old woman fumbles with her keys before setting one in the lock and turning it in place. They both push inside, she more hastily in an effort to get out of the rain. Dave's almost completely drenched by now, though, so standing on the porch while she folds down her umbrella doesn't make much of a difference to him.

"This way, dear, there should be a lasagne in the oven. Would you care for a cup of tea to warm yourself?"

"I don't like tea," Dave says bluntly. She merely laughs and bustles down the hall. Dave is starting to realize that she's actually a pretty spry old bird, and she isn't winded at all when they walk up the three short flights of stairs to her flat.

"In we go, dear, take off your shoes—yes, I know you're soaked, take them off anyway—there's a good boy. Let's see if we can't get you warmed up, hm? I think I may have some of my son's old clothes in the attic, they may—well, no, they'd be much too big for you. Then again, I think you'd prefer them to my own! Hoo-hoo!"

In a haze, Dave is prodded off to a tiny bathroom, where he's given musty towels and a brief instruction as to how to work the rickety taps. Then, the door is shut, and he's left to his own devices.

He wonders if she's planning to murder him.

Figuring that it wouldn't matter anyway, Dave begins to strip. He's found he's beyond caring and now all he wants is to stop feeling like a goddamn drowned rat. So he peels his clothes off, layer by layer, and steps into the shower.

Fuck. The hot water is heaven-sent, delicious to his frigid bones. He takes longer than he should, as always, and takes the chance to steal a little soap to make himself presentable. Both shampoo and soap are old, though, and he wonders if the aroma of old-person comes from what they wash with. He can't be picky, though, so he uses it all the same.

When he turns the shower off and carefully steps out on the bathmat, there's a sharp rap on the door.

"I've got some clothes here for you, duckie. I'll leave them by the door. No worries, I won't peep!" And then, as if for comedic timing, she adds, "Probably! Hoo-hoo!"

Dave raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond. Instead, he towels off, thinking the towels smell like what must be moth balls. He's never really known the smell, but he's heard the stories and it's the only explanation for the slightly sweet yet irrevocably odd scent.

When he's sure she's retreated back to the kitchen, he unlocks the door and darts a dextrous hand between the gap, pulling the spare clothes. These also smell like moth balls, but they're dry and that's all that matters.

Finally presentable, he exits the bathroom, leaving his orange clothes in a heap in the sink. This is the most respect he's shown for a stranger in a while, moving them from their original place dripping on the floor.

"Dinner's ready!" she calls, and the unmistakable scent of food—_real_ food—wafts through the hall.

_What the hell_, thinks Dave.

_Why the fuck not._


	30. Casper the Too Friendly Feline

"Some sugar with your tea?"

Before Dave can respond, a salt shaker is forced into his hand to compliment a cup of tea he didn't want. He stares down at the murky liquid with silent yet clearly visible distaste, and decides, again, _fuck it_. Sugar can't make this shitty drink any _worse_, anyway.

Who the hell keeps sugar in a salt dispenser? Maybe the old bat was losing her mind. Well, whatever. It wasn't like he was going to drink the tea anyway.

Dave tips the shaker over his cup and all at once, the top falls off, splashing dead-center and spilling both piping hot liquid and countless granules everywhere. Stunned, Dave looks up, only to find that the old woman has burst into a raucous chorus of _hoo-hoo_s.

"Sorry, dear, family ritual," she says as the laughter dies down, wiping tears from her eyes behind her thick-lens glasses. "Think of it as our way of saying 'grace'."

Dave looks down at the mess before him, still shocked, and wonders if there was perhaps a less wasteful welcoming tradition. The old woman is already at his place, though, picking up the pieces and wiping the table clean. She's come prepared, at any rate.

As she bustles off to the kitchen to discard the waste, Dave catches glimpse of a pair of shining eyes in the darkness. The muscles in his back stiffen as he watches the impossibly fat white cat sashay towards him, fluffy tail raised high in the air, smirking its feline smirk.

"Go away," Dave says. He once liked cats, long ago, but he's seen one too many times what they do to his fowl friends. He knows this cat has probably only ever seen birds through the window, but he finds he can't quite forgive it. Besides, it has the look of a cat that _would_ kill a bird.

The cat stops a few paces before him and sits on the carpeted floor, rolls of kitty fat pooling out around it.

"Good. Stay there," says Dave.

The cat opens its mouth and Dave starts, for it looks as though it wishes to answer. Then, it chirps.

"What the shit." Dave stares the cat down behind his tinted specs and the cat makes the funny noise again. What's worse is Dave thinks he might understand it, too, because beyond the garbled accent are words that he alone in the world of men can decipher.

It's trying to seduce him.

"No," says Dave. "Fuck you. Go away. How do you even think you can eat me, you stupid shit, you're tiny." _Tiny_, in this case, being relative, because when the cat stands and turns to face its returning owner, its belly seems to drag across the ground as if it were a mop of fat and fur.

"Hoo-hoo! So you've met Casper, I see. Isn't he lovely?"

"You'd better feed him soon, Granny, or he'll start chewing on your houseguests."

She simply laughs and pours Dave a fresh and equally unwanted cup of tea. "No, dear, he's just saying hello. You can't blame him for thinking you look tasty with your feathers all sticking up like that."

"Feathers?" Dave repeats, confused.

"Yes, dear. Your hair."

The reasoning is stupid, but Dave drags his fingers through his hair anyway, trying to make it lie flat. This causes the old woman to laugh again, and the cat begins to inch closer to him.

"Tell it to go away," says Dave.

"He's a friendly boy, dear. Just like you."

"I'm not—" Dave begins, but he's cut off by a sudden flurry of fluff as Casper makes a great and surprisingly nimble leap into his lap. Dave shudders and Casper curls up, taking the chance to lick Dave's hand.

"See? It's alright, he just wants to say hello."

If it were any other cat, Dave might agree, but the licking seems a little too aggressive for Dave's taste and soon his skin is licked raw. He pulls away and the cat gives a disappointed meow, but it simply stands to shift its weight around before snuggling down against his stomach, bright eyes focused right on Dave.

"There you go. Soon you'll be the best of friends! You'll see."

Dave mumbles an incoherent response that almost certainly contains cursing, which the old woman seems to pick up, judging from the twinkle in her eye. She ladles him out a heaping portion of lasagne and salad, then passes the plate across the cramped, circular table. Dave takes it with difficulty, for Casper refuses to move and digs his claws into Dave's thigh to keep his place. The stupid cat makes it just as difficult to eat, though Dave realizes its motives soon enough; anything he doesn't manage to get across the gap and into his mouth without it falling lands in Casper's domain.

"Do you actually feed him," Dave asks the fourth time a piece of lasagne slips from his fork and goes straight down Casper's gaping maw.

"Oh, yes. He just has a taste for meat, you know. He's quite the pampered puss!"

Well, no shit. Judging by the bejewelled pink collar around the cat's neck, he must be the household favourite. A little silver charm glitters at the clasp, a fairytale princess cap. Dave snorts in derision at the sight of it.

The old woman catches her eye and laughs her _hoo-hoo_ again. "The younger tenants have taken to calling him 'Princess'."

Dave can't think of a more ill-fitting name. Casper blinks his massive eyes and begins to purr loudly, a great rumble that Dave feels down his legs and across his stomach.

"Oh, there, see? He's quite fond of you, really, he doesn't do that with just anyone."

"Yeah, well, I bet he doesn't want to eat just anyone, either," Dave replies, forgetting that she can't understand Casper's coaxing chirps the same way he does.

"Yes, well, it's hard to fight nature, isn't it?"

Dave glances up. "What."

"Nature, dear, are you hard of hearing? I thought that was just me! Hoo-hoo! I'm sure you smell good to him after all that time on the streets! And you look the spitting image of a little birdy on the television program he watches."

"Your cat watches TV."

"Oh, yes, we both do. He enjoys the colours."

Dave's head is whirling because now he feels like someone is playing a practical joke on him, Granny or god or otherwise, but the only real question that comes to mind is _do cats even see in colour?_ God, Dave feels stupid.

"Are you full?"

Dave looks down at his plate and finds it as empty as his stomach isn't and he feels fit to burst. He can barely recall eating at all, what with his ongoing battle with Casper, it suddenly seems like he's had more than enough.

"Yeah," he replies. Then, as a slow afterthought, he adds, "Thanks."

"Hoo-hoo! So there are manners deep down in you somewhere, after all!" she laughs, standing and clearing the plates. Dave is starting to wonder if he should be helping her, but Casper digs his claws firmly into Dave's thighs and Dave knows he's stuck for now.

When the old woman returns, she clucks her tongue and Caspers slides back to the floor, giving Dave one last hungry look before going to his dinner—his _real_ dinner.

"Are you tired?" she asks. This brings back the stirrings of discomfort and Dave shrugs his shoulders. If she's offering for him to stay the night, he's not sure he wants to accept.

Regardless of his response, the old woman trots off to begin pulling odd ends from the couch, from musty tomes to theatre masks. "You seem to have caught me in the middle of spring cleaning," she says, answering the question he didn't think to ask. "I've been sorting all week but with a flat this small, it's hard to put things in their proper place!"

Nevertheless, she organizes the odds and ends quickly and soon the couch is clear of debris. She sets to work pulling thick, mismatched pillows from crowded armchairs and piling them by the couch. Then, she pulls a few fraying afghans from a basket beside the ancient television and drapes them over the back of the sofa.

"There you go, dear. I'm afraid a couch will have to do, I only have three rooms!" She stands by the couch expectantly and Dave resigns himself to a night in this queer but quaint little apartment. He slips over the russet leather arm of the chesterfield and climbs awkwardly across the frictionless leather cushions, coming at last to sit awkwardly beside the place she stands.

"Good, good," she coos, picking a particularly puffy pillow from the pile and putting it behind him. "Lie down, little ducky, and this old granny will tuck you in."

Dave is about to protest when she begins piling the afghans on him and he collapses back against the pillow, surprised at the weight accumulated bits of yarn can carry. He is rejected further freedom when Casper comes stalking in from the other room and leaps up onto his chest, pinning him and settling on his stomach, tail flicking back and forth across Dave's nose.

Dave refuses to sneeze on matter of principle.

The old woman chuckles a good-night and wanders off, presumably to her own room. A minute passes before the living room light flicks off, and he's left in darkness with the monstrous cat.

To Dave's continued though muted surprise, Casper begins to purr again, vibrating placidly in his place. At first, Dave threatens to push him off, but as the minutes pass he's lulled into a drowsy state of relaxation by the deep rumbles, and quite soon after he falls asleep.


	31. Monologuing Like the Bard Himself

Wakefulness does not come easily and Dave's head is filled with the perfume of crude incense and mothballs when he stirs. He's quick to push Casper off his stomach, though, feeling uncomfortably warm where the monstrous feline covered him. Casper gives a disgruntled chirp but allows Dave his space. He sits at the foot of the coffee table, though, staring with his disconcertingly blue ogle.

Tiptoeing across the floor, Dave is careful not to squeak a single floorboard. The carpet aids him in this, however, and he pads to the bathroom without consequence. There he finds his clothes hung neatly from the showerhead, a little coarse and stiff but still completely wearable. Quickly he makes the change from blue to orange, feeling immensely better with his own colour on his back. He slithers back into the hall and spies an old key hanging from a hook by the door. This he takes and uses to let himself out into the rest of the apartment complex. From the outside, he turns the lock back to its rightful position and slips the key back into the flat by way of the mail slot installed in the door. He hears the satisfying _thump_ of weighted metal on carpet and turns to face the new day.

Once back on the street, the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach begins to lessen. It's something not unlike guilt, but that's certainly not the correct name for whatever Dave is expressing because Dave doesn't feel guilty about things. That is, things that don't pertain to Rose. He does feel some guilt over his sudden departure from her house, but that was that and this is completely different. Yes.

As his feet hit the pavement and he propels himself ever further in some unknown direction, Dave begins to weigh his options. Where is he supposed to go from here? It's too soon to return to his chickie, of course, after so awkward an exit. John is out of the question, too, because why the hell would he even go to see John in the first place? It was always an accident, of course, an accident that he's met his not-friend twice now in fewer years. There's no attachment in their bond, no reason to see him. None.

Well, no, that's not true. He had promised Rose and that means he _will_ have to see John again, regardless of his own indifference. He can't break a promise for the queen, no, the knight must remain ever loyal. He will protect her interests.

That's what he tells himself, anyway, and for a moment his feet veer him off in the direction of John; John, who is currently very far away, so far that walking there is so stupid an idea that Dave scolds himself harshly before walking straight into a telephone pole and falling on his ass.

It takes him a good five minutes to gather himself again.

Damn, it's been years since he's done something that stupid, and he's finally risen his total score of stationary object run-ins to three. He should be motherfucking ashamed of himself but he really doesn't care. No one is on the street and even if they were, he's just some bum kid doing stupid shit as people think hobos are wont to do.

Dave doesn't want to get up.

He sits on the edge of the curb for a long time, barely moved from the place he fell. He thinks there's some of that apartment scent wafting around in his brain, muddling his senses and making him feel sluggish and stupid.

A solitary car passes him by, the driver giving no indication of even registering him as a thing, despite Dave's outlandishly orange garb.

What about Bro?

Before the thought is even complete in his mind, he gives himself a rather vicious scolding, complete with what must be psychosomatic stabs to the gut. Even his body is against the idea, it seems, and he carries out a long inner row with himself, trying to defend the idiot thought. It's more out of self-preservation than actual outright agreement with the idea, though, because Dave thinks going back is one of the dumbest ideas he's ever had. It's stupid. It's so very, very stupid and Dave is stupid and…

Fuck.

Maybe he will give John a visit, after all.


	32. Return to the Scene of the Crime

The meeting does not go as Dave had expected.

In his mind, he goes to the door and John answers. It has to be John that answers, of course, because if John's father answered, the way in would be permanently barred. No, John's father would not let him in. That's why it has to be John that answers the door, who lets him in, maybe a little hesitantly. If Dave goes during the day, John's father would be at work, so it's really not too far-fetched an assumption. Yes, go during the day and you're safe.

Dave would have to bring something, though. Some conciliatory gift to make up for his rudeness—_his perfectly motherfucking understandable rudeness considering the goddamn circumstances of his recent deaths and_—

Dave coughs. A peace offering.

What could Dave give, though? He has only the clothes on his back. He could give the shades, maybe, but since they're what tied him to John in the first place, it seems kind of lame. Regifting to the gifter. No, that wouldn't work.

He could try to lift a few things at a store, maybe, but Dave doesn't actually like stealing. A thousand times over, he'd rather forage than steal. It's not that his ethics are impeccable—they're not—but that it's just not right. He's a Strider, and Striders fix their own damn problems. They don't steal from the dumb masses. They forge their own fucking way.

Maybe Dave could do a repeat of his floral gift for Rose. If he did it right, it would be completely free and only the flowers themselves would be harmed in the process.

No, no, _no_, that is a fucking stupid idea, because John would think Dave was hitting on him or something, and that's definitely not what Dave is trying to imply here. There's a huge leap between _murderer_ and _admirer_ on the acquaintanceship scale and Dave doesn't want to be either of them.

Besides, unlike Rose's backyard fucking forest, all John's nigh-identical rows of houses offer are grass clippings and maybe a couple lone dandelions. If he were to take flowers, he'd be taking them from carefully manicured gardens, and then he'd be back on the stealing side of things.

He'd have to go empty-handed. Lame, but maybe acceptable giving the whole homeless situation he has going on.

What would he say?

_ i didnt kill that dude_

_ what dude?_

_ you know the one you think i killed_

_ well who did you kill then?_

_ motherfucking nobody you asshole why do you think i even killed someone_

_ dave it was kind of obvious!_

_ yeah well sorry to burst your occam bubble but that razors dull as fucking rocks and i didnt do anything_

_ dave…_

No, that would be a stupid conversation. He wouldn't get anywhere and he'd end up slipping up and then Rose would hate him. That's why he's doing this—for Rose. It's all for her benefit, for the appearance of friendship between her boys. Yeah.

So Dave would appear on the doorstep and meet only John with nothing to offer and nothing to say.

Perfect.

Dave groans in frustration, pressing his palms to his eyes and seeing rainbow sparks in the darkness of his lids. There are only two ways this meeting could go: _bad_ and _worse_.

"Dave?"

Electricity runs through Dave's veins the moment he hears the unfamiliar murmur matched to the too-familiar tone, the tone he hears in his darkest moments when he has conversations in his head with friends that no longer exist. The voice is deeper now, lowered with age and yet still recognizable.

He's not ready.

Dave's not ready, he's so very, very not ready but it's happening so quickly and all he can do is run because he always runs. That's Dave, Dave the coward, Dave the flighty, feathery asshole, plucked once and dyed but still very much retaining those old animal instincts.

"Dave, wait!"

Before Dave can dive into the bushes, long fingers shoot out and wrap firmly around his wrist, pulling him back from his freedom, caging him with piano-honed digits. In his moment of panic, Dave braces his feet against the ground and twists, still trying to wrench himself away. The sudden change in position causes John to overbalance and he falls, too surprised at Dave's strength to compensate and so they tumble to the grassy ground.

Instantly, Dave is writhing under John's treelike frame, trying to claw his way to escape, digging his fingertips into the earth and trying to slide himself away.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Clearly never having had strife experience with a ruthless older brother, John is at a loss of what to do.

He sits on Dave's chest.

"Hey, buddy," says John, panting a little with exertion.

"Don't call me that," Dave snarls in a most uncool way. He's still running on instinct and his mind is a hot white fuzz. He wants to peck at John's weak points, to beat him senseless with his wings, and it takes a few moments for Dave to realize he has neither beak nor wings. Dave collapses back against the ground and John gives a little encouraging nod.

"Rose told me you might show up," John says. "I didn't expect to find you here, though."

"That makes two of us," Dave growls. He's still struggling, but John is cutting off just enough air to his lungs to make every movement that much harder. Dave remembers being twelve, pinned to the hot concrete of the roof with a foot and a blade. He always lost his strifes back then. Why should anything change? Seven years later and he's the same stupid kid he always was.

"I didn't think you'd come back here," John says, his voice a little quiet.

"Yeah, I bet you combed the fucking woods, all like 'where'd he hide the body'—"

"I didn't do that!"

"No, you let the police do that instead."

John makes a very frustrated sound in the back of his throat, an irritated _arrggh_. "Dave, nothing happened!"

"Yeah," says Dave. "Nothing did happen."

"That's not what I meant, you're twisting my—look, it doesn't matter. Rose told me you didn't hurt anyone."

"So you believe me."

"I believe her," John says. "So I guess that means I believe you, too."

"Real fucking comforting, Egbert. Get off my fucking chest."

"What do you expect, Dave? I barely know you!"

"Some goddamn fucking decency, now get off my chest before the person I supposedly murdered ends up being you." Dave is used to spewing threats by now, his practice come to him in the form of lesser hobos straying too close to his designated area. That's why, when John steps off him, he's a little surprised.

"You don't make a good case for yourself," John says, his voice tinged with…what, sadness? Idiot.

"Yeah, well, it's hard to make a good case when it comes to you." Dave rolls expertly to his feet, brushing the soil from his shirt. "You don't have to believe me, John. I don't care."

"Maybe you should," John says.

"Sorry, lost that capacity the day I had my tear ducts soldered shut."

John raises his eyebrows and it looks like he might laugh. "Really? And was that before or after you curled up on my bed and cried yourself to sleep?"

Dave's face burns an instant red and he steps back, ashamed. "Fuck you," he says, though his voice shakes with uncertainty. This isn't going well, this isn't what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to mend the bridge and least keep up the air of friendship, but all he's elicited in himself and John so far is hostility.

"Come home with me."

Dave flinches visibly and tries to hide it by running his fingers through his hair, a gesture of nonchalance, trying to resurrect his dead coolkid persona. He's trying to pass the shiver off as a shrug, but John is clearly not fooled by the charade.

"Come home with me," John says again.

"I don't think your dad would approve," Dave says, a sardonic laugh threatening to rise in the back of his throat. He bites it back, though, trying to be genuine.

"He talked to Rose. I think he believes you more than I do," John replies quietly. "That's two people I trust that believe you, Dave. Don't you want to up your team total to three?"

Dave gives a brief, halting nod. "I'm only doing this for Rose."

"For Rose," John agrees. "Come on."

Exiting the park, Dave thinks he's never been as unsure of himself as he is right now. After all, his entire world is riding on this fool's friendship game.

He had to make it count.


	33. An Exchange of Unpleasantries

"You can come in, Dave."

The words slip through Dave's ears, barely registering in his mind. He's been given permission, sure, but that doesn't mean he wants to. He stands in the foyer, one foot still on the mat by the door. The perfect house gleams with unavailability; this is not where Dave belongs. It's his old anxiety rearing its ugly head in the pit of his stomach again, the sense of overwhelming difference. Dave shouldn't be here—he'll only taint it with his presence.

"Dave."

Dave barely wraps his lips around the word "dirty" before John sighs and shakes his head in dull exasperation. He holds up his hand, quelling any further argument on Dave's part.

"Fine. You know where the shower is. Go for it."

Unsure, Dave lingers on the mat. He can still run—all it would take was a quick turn of the heel and he could burst out the door and down the street.

He doesn't do that, though. He merely stands awkwardly in his place, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, leaving his concerns to go unsaid.

John watches him blatantly, not bothering to conceal his piercing stare. Dave would find it rude if he didn't feel so strange being in this house, as though he weren't quite corporeal, like he'd reverted back to sprite form. John's unwavering gaze reminds him that he is very much solid, though, and he hesitates under it.

"Go," John says at last. "Don't worry about your clothes. I'll get you some of my old ones and you can wear those until we wash the ones you're wearing. You know, same as last time."

Dave nods a little, still shifting his weight from one foot to the other, still standing in the same place.

John sighs again. "Come on," he says, reaching out and taking Dave by the wrist, acting like he's an impetuous child in need of scolding.

To no one's surprise, Dave reacts as though he's been burned. He tears his arm from John's grasp and hops away, pressing his back to the door, chest twitching with his every heartbeat. It's too much for him, and too soon. He is so utterly at a loss for what to do at every consecutive moment that it's starting to mess with his head. John's patience is wearing thin, too. If they keep it up, they won't last the day.

"Sorry," John says in monotone.

Another nod from Dave. Good, keep up the communication. That at least indicates some effort on his part. A miniscule effort, but an effort. Rose can't begrudge him that.

"Come on, Dave," John says. "I'm not going to bite you. Just come inside and have a shower or something. You want to, right?"

Finally, Dave's discomfort at his otherness and his want for cleanliness win out and he shuffles his shoes off. John almost smiles in relief at the compliance but not quite. They're not there yet.

Soundlessly, John leads Dave up the stairs and to the bathroom, then leaves him to his ablutions.

Once alone, Dave performs his usual bath time ritual, but there's no pleasure in the removal of grime this time. He's just going through the motions, making himself presentable and perhaps therefore more acceptable. More human.

When Dave is finished washing and drying, he snakes his hand out the small gap in the doorway he makes for himself, searching for his promised clean clothes. His fingertips graze fabric and he yanks it back into the bathroom. Black slacks and a t-shirt emblazoned with some god-awful logo for a shitty movie John likes.

But the t-shirt is orange.

Dave falters at the sight of it, wondering if it's supposed to be some sort of peace offering. Whatever John means by it, he'll accept it. Wearing John's old slime shirt would have been nigh-intolerable at this point.

So Dave pulls on the clean clothes and begins to feel a little better now that he's freshly washed and garbed in tangerine. He folds his old clothes a little and picks them up, careful to keep from getting dirt on his clean skin, and steps back into the hallway.

He finds John sitting on his couch, watching some mindless movie without really seeing it. Dave can tell he's not focussed by the way his eyes don't follow the action on the screen. He's just staring into space, positioned in the direction of the television but completely unaware.

"Um," says Dave. John looks up.

"Oh, good," he says. "You're out." He stands up and strides over. At such a close distance, Dave can really see how fucking _tall_ this kid is, and he feels a hot pang of jealousy in his heart. He could have been tall, too. Maybe not as tall as John, but at least taller than his little sister. Fate dealt him a shit hand of cards, though, and now he's stuck like this, skinny and small and a foot shorter than the dude he's supposed to be friends with. Damn if he didn't hate John for towering over him like that.

John doesn't seem to be paying attention to Dave's inert musings on shortness, however, and he pulls the bundle of clothes from Dave's grasp before the ginger boy can react.

"Hey—" Dave begins with a snarl, forgetting himself again.

"Easy, there. I'm just going to put them in the wash. Or do you want them to be gross forever?"

Dave forces his annoyed expression back to neutral. "Just be careful with them."

"Yeah," says John. "I know."

"Rose gave them to me."

"I know."

So John takes the clothes and disappears for a few minutes. When he returns, it's Dave who's watching the TV.

"Do you like this show?" John asks.

"I don't know what's playing," says Dave.

"Right." John takes his seat on the couch again and motions for Dave to join him. There's a minute of contemplation from Dave before he succumbs and sits on the overstuffed cushion of the sofa, tucking his legs up against his chest and peering at the screen over his knees. For a moment, it feels like John is going to laugh at him. The moment passes and all John's done is fiddle with the TV remote. They sit in their mutual silence for entire movie, some shitty flick about alien turtle monsters in cheap rubber suits.

"What did Rose say?" Dave asks at last.

John doesn't move his gaze from the screen. "She said to trust her."

"Is that all?"

At this, John does turn to face Dave. "What do you think she told me?"

"I don't know."

"Of course."

And then there's silence.


	34. Reconciliation

"Dave, let's stop this."

Dave looks up from the grit of the concrete to see John standing in the door, looking exceptionally tired. John is paler than usual, a white sliver against the shadows of his house. There are dark circles under his eyes and he leans on the door for support.

Dave wonders if he's killing him.

"Stop what," Dave replies, dropping his gaze to the ground at his feet. He's sitting on John's back step, taking a breather from the house and John and everything after a pretty bad row. The open air makes him feel a little better; at least he can breathe again.

"You know what," John says. "Come on. Let's stop fighting. This is stupid."

"Yeah," says Dave. "It is stupid."

"Fuck, Dave, I'm just trying to end this!"

"Yeah."

There is a moment's pause where John watches him, waiting for further response. When nothing comes, he makes a frustrated noise in his throat and goes back inside.

_Well_, thinks Dave. _That's done._

But after a few minutes, the door opens again and a mass off softness hits him in the back. Dave starts and pulls the blanket off, then stares at it for a minute.

"What."

"Thought you might get cold," John mumbles, turning to go back in.

"Come here," Dave says. Hesitantly, John complies, sitting beside him on the step. "For one thing, I don't need this." He pulls the blanket from his shoulders and drapes it around John instead. "Because I don't get cold."

John mumbles what Dave thinks might be a noncommittal apology, but he doesn't probe further.

"Second…yeah, I guess I'm being a dick. I'll try to lay off."

John's posture softens a little and he reaches an arm around Dave. Dave's skin crawls at the sudden touch and John must notice the shiver, because he pulls away quickly. "Sorry."

"My fault," says Dave. "Ignore it."

"But—"

"Just fucking ignore it."

So John wraps his skinny arm around Dave again and rearranges the blanket to rest on both of them, despite Dave's warning of its uselessness.

"You're warm," he says, leaning against Dave's shoulder. It takes a fair bit of contortion to manage, but he does his best. Dave sits there stonily, not really sure how to proceed.

"I'm always warm."

"Yeah, but you're like, extra warm. You're warmer than Rose."

"There's lava in these veins, man."

John's closed his eyes at this point, and his breathing begins to slow. Dave heaves an inner sigh and looks up at the sky. He watches black birds circling in the sky, making great arcs below the clouds. As an afterthought, he pulls the shades from his face and sets them gently on John's, blocking the sun from his once-friend's sleepless eyes.

"I want to be friends again," John mumbles.

"Go to sleep," says Dave. But the damage is done. It opens a fresh pathway to his imagination. This is his John. Yes, this is his John and they've just had a fight. Sometimes friends fight. It was a bad one, but they can pull through. They can be friends again and go back to—

_**No.**_

Dave blocks the thought from his mind. He can't go back there. He can't keep pretending. This is _not_ his John. This is a different John, a John from a different timeline and not the John he found all those years ago, dead in a pool of his own blood, never to return.

Except he had returned. Dave had made sure of that. He had circumvented their doom and escaped his own somehow, and he had saved John from a grisly fate. It just…wasn't his John anymore.

Dave's shoulder is starting to feel stiff, but John's fallen asleep and he doesn't want to wake the kid. Rose wouldn't be too grateful if his visit yielded naught but yet another problem to add to John's list.

Now Dave takes to watching the rhythmic rise and fall of John's chest. He's heard about the scars and he's a little curious. They're kindred spirits, two out of five to be physically marked by the game.

He wants to ask John questions. He wants to know what John's dad said, what he did, how he reacted. He wants to know many things but he certainly won't ask them, not if he wants Rose to keep liking him. No, he's got to play this right. He has to help fix John up, not make him worse.

"Hey," says Dave.

No response.

"Hey," he says, a little louder this time.

"What?" John mutters.

"Let's go to your room."

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Strider?"

"Oh, yeah, you're totally my dream man. All those arms and legs waving like fucking tentacles, yeah, I'm all about that horrorterror shit. Now shut up and sleep in your bed." Dave brushes John off him and stands up, flexing his muscles, trying to work out the stiffness.

"Are you leaving?"

"Do I look like I'm leaving. Come on." Dave offers a hand and pulls a hesitant John to his feet.

"You're pretty strong, too. Stronger than the other Dave."

"You mean 'real' Dave?"

"Fuck you. I'm not trying to start—"

"It's fine," says Dave. "He can be 'real'. I don't care."

To Dave's surprise, John grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a little shake. "Well, I do! You're just as real as he is!"

"It's fine, John. Really."

"It's not fine!"

"It is fine. He's your Dave. I get it."

"No, you don't! You're so focussed on 'my' Dave and 'your' John, it's stupid! Why can't we just be 'Dave' and 'John'?" Suddenly Dave registers the pleading in John's eyes. He really does want to be friends, maybe even real friends. Dave falters, the uncertainty returning to him in a cold, trickling wave.

"Because he was my best friend!" Dave blurts. "And you're not him."

"Dave, I'm not trying to be him!"

"I…but you are him. That's the problem. You've got his face and his hair and his glasses and you're him. You're exactly him except you're _not_ because…"

"Because?"

"Look, it doesn't matter." Dave can feel the heat creeping across his face. He hates himself for what he almost said. He's being so fucking childish, so selfish, so _stupid_.

"Tell me," John insists, his voice soft, trying to coax the answer away from him.

"No."

"Come on. I'm not like him because…?" John is trying to charm the answer from him, pulling what he must think is some sort of seduction face. It's lame and it's silly and, worst of all, it's working.

"Because I'm not your only Dave! Jesus, are you fucking happy? I've got a fucking doppelganger and he's taken over my life, except it's wrong because _I'm_ the doppelganger, it's me."

"Dave…"

"No, don't fucking 'Dave' me. You don't get it because you're on the other fucking side, you've got it made. You've got fucking _two_ Daves, you don't have to worry about some guy coming up and stealing your best dude."

"Dave, I—"

"Forget it." The irritation leaves as quickly as it comes and now Dave just feels tired. He's trying to explain his feelings but the words aren't coming out right and everything he says is just a fountain of shit.

"Dave—"

"I said fucking forget it. I don't know what I'm saying. Come on, you look fucking dead on your feet, go get that skinny ass in bed before you pass out on the goddamn ground."

John opens his mouth as if to say something, thinks better of it and nods. "Alright. You coming?"

"Nah, I'll let you have your nap in peace. There's a couch with my name on it down here."

"Dave."

"What."

"Come with me. Please."

Dave narrows his eyes, trying to decipher the pleading tone. He doesn't understand. "Why."

"Please."

"Why."

"Because—because I don't want to sleep alone, you prick! Christ, you are so hard to deal with sometimes."

"Don't sell me short, Eggie," says Dave. "I'm hard to deal with all the time."

It seems John can't decide whether to laugh or shout in frustration. As a compromise, he presses a palm to his temple. "You're impossible."

"Now you're getting it. Come on. We'll tuck you in tight."

"And?"

Dave sighs. "And I'll sit with you for a while. Until you fall asleep or something."

"Thanks, Dave."

"Whatever."

This time, though, Dave can't help but feel a tinge of pleasure when John ruffles his hair and goes up the stairs.


	35. Apples and Oranges

John's breathing is rhythmic and slow, in and out, in and out. A ray of afternoon light manages to pierce through the gap in the curtains, illuminating a sliver of the bedroom floor. Dave is a statue; he holds his position on the bed, his only movement in the form of his own silent breathing and his roving eyes.

The bedroom hasn't changed much over the years. He can notice this, now that he's not distracted by beer and nerves. John isn't awake, so he doesn't have to worry about pretending. He can do what he wants until the blessed reprieve is over.

Well. He can do what he wants to an extent. John's arm is curled around Dave's wrist and his nose is pressed against Dave's side. It had taken him a while to fall asleep, a very long and awkward while. There had been some exchange of small talk ("You still have your posters" and "Did you paint over the graffiti?") before they had retired to the bed. Initially, John had been on the far side, completely solitary, and Dave had his freedom. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, just sitting here. The kid would fall asleep and then he'd be free to go somewhere else, take a break, remember his motivation.

That dream shattered rather quickly as John started drifting off and drifting closer. By the time he had slipped into dreamworld, he was snuggled right up beside the ginger boy, unconscious and uncaring.

Now Dave is trapped with nothing to entertain him but studying his surroundings. It's not so bad, maybe, because he knows it could be worse. He's heard horror stories from Rose about roaming tentacle limbs that wrap you up in sleep. It's only really his arm that's surrounded, with more closeness than encompassment. Dave wonders if it's the wall between them at work, even in sleep. It's John's way of separating them without sacrificing the companionship he seems to crave.

Dave wonders if he smells like his doppelganger. Maybe that's what called John from his exile, his sleep-stupid mind searching for familiarity. Dave reaches his free arm up and takes a quiet sniff, only then realizing that he has nothing to compare it to. Besides, all he smells is the soap he stole from John's bathroom for use in his ablutions.

Shuddering vibrations pull him from his thoughts and he looks down. John shivers again and half-opens his eyes.

"Dave…?" he mumbles only semi-coherently. He sits up a little and looks up at Dave's face before his eyes snap open and he quickly propels himself back across the bed. "Jesus!"

So he had mistaken Dave for someone else.

Dave sighs. He can't really blame him. "Hey."

"Shit, was I just—fuck. Sorry, Dave."

"Whatever."

"I know how you don't really like touching," John tries to apologize. "And I don't—we don't really know each other very well." He laughs a rather unnatural, nervous laugh, and the combination of it and the paleness of his face give away his horror.

"You're thinking of someone else," Dave says, his own expression rearranged to display a perfect poker bluff.

"Well, yeah," John says uncomfortably. "But I thought it might still apply, you know, I mean…" He trails off.

"We're different," Dave says firmly. "Look." With one hand, he pulls his shades from his face and hangs them from the collar of his shirt. He then turns to look John full in the face, eyes slightly narrowed with defiance. "See? Night and fucking day."

For some reason, John seems to lighten a little at this. He gives a sheepish smile. "Yeah? Good. I'm glad."

"Have a good sleep?"

"Huh? Yeah, it was ok." John shrugs, still looking rather awkward. "Sorry about…that whole thing, I guess."

"It's fine."

"You're not mad at me?"

"I'm not mad." Dave leans back against the wall. He would never say it, but he does enjoy affection. Maybe not from John and definitely not from everyone else, but he does. Hell, maybe he could learn to accept a friendly touch from his not-friend once and a while. John wasn't too clingy in his sleep (well, mostly), and it had been a little…endearing, he supposed.

"Dave?"

"Yo."

"You're okay, right?"

"Peaches and cream," Dave replies, not sparing John a second glance. He pretends to be studying the posters on his wall.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."


	36. We're Friends

Two days later, the politeness is really beginning to wear on Dave. He sits on the couch, knees tucked to his chest, watching the movie beside a stationary John. Each boy gets their own cushion, and the gap between them is enough to make Dave sick. He's already stopped paying attention to the shitty film John had picked out; moving pictures hurt his unaccustomed eyes if he looks at them for too long, and he's already starting to feel the migraine prickling behind his temples. He watches John from the corner of his eye instead-the rise and fall of his chest, the way his baby blues clear when he takes in his favourite films.

Dave sighs and leans on the arm of the couch.

"Bored?" John asks, his eyes flicking from the screen to linger on Dave for a few moments.

"Tired."

"D'you want a nap?"

Dave wants to answer _yes_, but he knows it would be no use. He's bad at sleeping at the best of times; living in the Egbert house just makes it hell. There is always a stifling air around him, like he doesn't belong. He can't relax while they're still playing their game of courtesy chicken, which means he can't sleep, either. He has too many instincts telling him he's in the danger zone and, hell, they're probably right. This isn't his place.

"I'm fine," Dave lies.

"Are you?" John abandons his movie now, turning his body to face Dave. "I don't think I've seen you sleep for days."

Dave shrugs. "I sleep when you sleep, I just wake up earlier. I don't need it as much."

"Dave, that's really dangerous!"

Dangerous? Dave nearly laughs. Really, John? Is it dangerous? Am I going to die? No biggie, then, I'll just bounce back in a few hours or something. One if I'm lucky. Twenty if I'm not.

Instead, he just repeats, "I'm fine."

"Look, I know you don't really like me, but-"

"I don't not like you," Dave says dully. "I just don't like you, either."

"That doesn't matter! Jesus, Dave, I..." John makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and shakes his head. "You're really important to Rose. If you don't want to take care of yourself for you, do it for her. You need to rest."

"Where the fuck's this coming from?" Dave asks, feeling the faint stirrings of amusement in his chest. What the hell was John going on about?

"Just-just make sure you get some proper sleep!"

"Worried?" Dave means it as a joke, playing it in a jesting tone, but it misses its mark.

John's eyebrows knit together and he shouts, "Yes! For fuck's sake, Dave, you're-you're my friend!"

This startles Dave a little, making him glad he's wearing his shades. He isn't sure how he's supposed to react. He stares at the kid, who is clearly on the verge of some sort of breakdown, and all he feels is blankness.

"Hey, chill," says Dave. "I don't need sleep the same as you do. Just calm those rosy tits, Egb-Eggie."

Now John seems a little unsure, his voice dropping. "You still need it."

"I'm fine."

"_Are_ you? I don't know what I'm supposed to believe from you, Dave!"

"Believe what you want to," Dave says. _It doesn't matter to me._

"Come on. You need to rest." He's-what is that tone-_pleading_. "Please, Dave." Then the kid reaches out and touches Dave's arm and Dave jumps like he's been burned. This just freaks John out more and it looks like he's about to panic pretty hard.

"For fuck's sake," Dave growls. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's hooked his arm around John's neck and dragged the once-friend into his chest. "Just chill the hell out, Jesus fuck." John struggles against Dave for a few moments, but he has little stamina and soon collapses against the ginger.

"I just want you to be ok," comes a small, muffled voice.

"I am okay," says Dave. "Motherfucking peachy is what I am."

"That's what you say when you're not okay!"

"You're thinking of someone else, Egderp."

"No, Dave, I don't think I am!"

Dave sighs and drags his fingers through John's hair. "Just relax."

"I'm not the one that needs to relax!"

"I'm pretty sure that yeah, right now you _are_. Look, I'm here, I'm safe. What more do you want?"

"I want-I want to be friends, Dave. I don't want to keep doing this! I hate it. It's awful and uncomfortable and you hate me."

"I don't hate you," says Dave.

"It sure seems like you do!"

"Well, I don't." Dave's hand slides down to rest on John's shoulder, pinning him there. "I don't hate anyone. On a scale from zero to care, you rank slightly above the normal Joe."

"Because of Rose."

"Because of Rose," Dave agrees. "And because of this really lame dude I used to know."

Wrong move. Dave can feel John tense up and the tremor that runs down the kid's back vibrates his own hand. The only response Dave can think of is to pull him tighter, crushing the poor gangly boy against his chest.

"Just...just give it time, alright? And stop being so goddamn fucking polite, walking on eggshells like it's going out of style, it's annoying as fuck."

John nods into the orange shirt. "Yeah. Alright." Then he starts to laugh. "Hugged by a Strider! Guess I'm pretty damn lucky today, huh? You think you're allowed to do this, coolkid?"

Frustration prickles at Dave's sides and he says flatly, "I'm not a coolkid." He dropped that title like it was hot fucking years ago. He's no coolkid now. He barely passes as human on the best of days. Hobos don't get to choose.

John shifts until he's sandwiched between Dave and the back of the couch. He's too long for it, really, and his legs stick out over the opposite arm, but he seems to be more comfortable like that.

"You're really warm," John says.

"And you're cold as fuck."

"...yeah."

Dave glances down and paps John on the top of the head. "Doesn't fucking matter."

"Alright."

At this angle, Dave realizes that John's looking pretty shitty too-shittier than normal. There are dark bags under his eyes and his cheekbones seem particularly prominant from this view. Dave looks away. "Go to sleep, twat."

"You too."

"Yeah, maybe."

John struggles for a minute before extracting one pinned arm from beneath him and wrapping it around Dave's waist. "This okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Just don't go full tentacle monster on me. I've heard the tales. Seas part and sailors tremble and all that."

"Hehe. Yeah." John closes his eyes and Dave can feel his muscles relaxing. Good. It's easier to cope with the kid when he's asleep. "Dave?"

"Here."

"We can be friends, right?"

"Sure."

"...Friends again, right?"

"Yeah."

"Kay." With that, John switches to full-on sloth mode and conks out completely, a cold lump between Dave and the fabric of the couch. Dave wonders how Rose can endure the icy tendrils that are John's limbs, but soon he's lulled into surprising security by the closeness, the friendly touch. Maybe he can let himself enjoy it, just for now.

Dave sighs, stirs, and sleeps.


	37. The ET Phenomenon

"Dave..."

"Yeah?"

"Can you come inside for a minute?" John leans back from the window, granting Dave room to swing inside. Hesitantly, Dave obliges, and the birds that have been gathering around him scatter and disappear in a storm of flurrying wings.

"Sup." Dave latches onto a branch, swings twice and lands with a thump on the hard floor, straightening up and away from the recoil immediately after impact.

"Um...look, I'm not telling you to leave or anything, but the doctor is coming today." John drags his fingers through his dark hair, making it stick up in odd angles.

"The wh-oh, yeah. Sure. It's cool, I can hightail it out of here. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate all the hobo germs up in here." Dave gives a little shrug, jamming his hands into his pockets in what he thinks is the perfect image of nonchalance. Really, it doesn't matter to him. He can't stay in one place too long, anyway-both his mind and his body would refuse him.

"Dave, it's not like that."

"I know." Dave reaches up and rests his hand briefly on John's head-an impressive feat, considering the boy's height-and then turns to peer back out the window. "It's cool, man. It's getting warmer, I don't have to carry the banner."

"The what? No, shut up, don't tell me, I don't care. Dave, what I'm trying to say is... I don't know. Shit." John flounders for a few moments, clearly growing frustrated with himself.

Dave just waves his hand dismissively. "Hey, man. We're cool now. Just relax. This'd be a friendly departure and all that. I'm not offended."

"I'm not telling you to leave, Dave! Jesus! Listen for a moment, alright? I haven't talked to Rose or anything, but I think...maybe you should stay."

"I'm not living with you," Dave says immediately, spinning on his heel to face John again. "Ever." He pauses, then quickly adds, "Nothing personal. I don't want to live with chickie, either."

That seems to help John find his words. "I'm not sayng you should live with me, asswit, I'm saying maybe you should get looked at."

"Looked at...by what, the doctor? Why?"

"Well, Dave, I dunno. Years on the street and living of rats? Gee, I can't think of a damned reason why you might want to get checked out."

"That was one time," Dave says, vaguely surprised that John had even remembered. Then again, half of Dave's time is spent censoring himself-maybe that really was the most "shocking" detail he'd disclosed.

"I know I'm not exactly one to talk, but you're pretty skinny, too, Dave. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm not going to get hurt."

"Come on. It won't hurt, I promise. I wasn't too cool with it in the beginning, but he's really nice. You don't have to be scared."

"Jesus fuck, I'm not scared. That's not the issue here!" Dave snaps.

"Then what is?"

Dave bites his lip, prohibited from saying any of the things he wants to say. He can't tell John what he's worried about because John can't _know_ what he's worried about. What is he supposed to say? _Hey, man, I don't wanna go see some quack because they'll lock me up and dissect me._ And What if the doctor wanted a blood test? What blood does Dave even have? How much bird is still left in his fucking system?

Dave looks down at his bare arms. His blood isn't gold anymore, that much had become clear. He had always assumed it was just human blood, candy red and metallic to the taste. But what if it isn't? He doesn't know the _reason_ for his weird deathlessness, for his weird Wolverine-esque healing shit. Maybe he'd come up as some sort of anomaly, maybe they'd want to run more tests.

Hell, maybe they'd want to bottle it up and sell it to the highest bidder. He rubs his arms a little at the thought. He had never been comfortable with needles.

And the scar, oh god, what if the doctor let slip about the scar? It's not something John is supposed to know, and not something he can explain himself._ Oh, this? Nah, man, just had this sword torn from my belly, no biggy._ Shit, what is he supposed to do?

"Dave?" John prompts.

"What." Dave looks up abruptly, dragged from his thoughts.

"Are you okay?'

"Yeah, fucking peachy. Look, there are just reasons, alright? I'm not going. There's nothing wrong with me. Fit as a fucking fiddle."

"I'm just trying to look out for you, Dave. You've had a pretty shitty run of luck and I don't want you getting hobo plague."

Dave shakes his head. Shit. "I won't, Eggie. Trust me on that."

"You can't know that."

"I can." Dave pats John's arm briefly before withdrawing quickly. "Just trust me on that. I'm not seeing your guy."

John still doesn't look convinced, but that was as much information as Dave could give. Finally, the boy sighs. "Yeah. Alright. Fine. Rose probably has an opinion on this, too."

Contemplating, Dave shifts his weight from one foot to another. "...It doesn't matter. I still wouldn't go."

"Really? Even if it was Rose that asked?"

"...Yeah." It's too dangerous, Dave thinks. He can't do it. Even if it was chickie asking him, he has to stay the fuck away from doctors and nurses and hospitals. He has to.

"Alright. I guess I can't compete with that." John walks back a few steps and sits on the bed, suddenly looking rather tired. "It was just an idea."

"I know," Dave tries to soothe, though he's remarkably shitty at it. Even in his own ears, the words sound fake, though he realizes that they don't even convey his proper message. "You're just trying to be a good bro, right. It's fine. It's my bad, not yours."

"You're really sure you don't want to?"

"Yeah." Dave nods sharply, tugging the hem of his shirt down in what was slowly becoming a sort of nervous tic. He's suddenly aware that John is watching him and he quickly begins to orchestrate his escape. "Actually, I should probably leave. I don't want to get in the way or anything."

"You don't have to leave, Dave. I said that."

"Nah, it's cool. Docters and I don't really mix." He shrugs, playing it off as something casual. He doesn't want to alarm John, though he knows he probably has already. His reaction was too weird.

Without missing a beat, John comments on it. "Dave, you're not hiding something, right? You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" John asks.

"Nah, man, I'm fine." Dave spreads his arms, still trying to look casual but really just looking like an idiot. "I just don't like doctors. Even the nice ones. We just don't mix. You're looking at an oil and water relationship here, Eggie. Nothing can be done."

"You'd tell me if you were hurt, right? Or sick? I know I'm not Rose, and our relationships been pretty fucking shitty since the start, but... I mean. I'm still John."

"Don't worry, Eggie. The moment I snap my arm I'll come to you," Dave lies. "Whether it's convenient or not."

"Yeah? Alright. It's a deal."

"And you keep up your doctoring, alright? Make chickie proud."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Alright, dude, I'd better get my leave on before the attractive sir gets here." Dave pats John on the head again, trying very hard to be supportive but feeling very empty all the same.

"Yeah, I got it. Don't get into trouble, asshole. And make sure you visit Rose."

"Sure thing, bro. Peace." And with a last lame double-pointing gesture, Dave goes to the window and ollies out.


	38. Something to Lose

Three days pass and Dave has already broken the promise he knew he'd never keep. He watches the blood drain from his arm, unable to put enough pressure on the wound to stem the flow. He laughs humourlessly at the absurdity of his situation, the sheer ridiculousness of everything. With every promise to stay out of trouble, problems just seem to pull him back in.

How far is he from Rose?

Wait, why is he even thinking that at a time like this? Why would he go to Rose? He knows how this plays out. He sits here and bleeds to death and wakes up a few days later, unmarked and reset. It's how it's always been and how it'll continue to be, regardless of how close he is to his chickie.

Shit, what would he even do if she was here? Hell, it'd probably make it worse. No one should see him snuff it like that; it's a privilege-or a curse-reserved just for him. Making someone endure it with him would just be cruel. At least he knows how it all goes down.

Dave's grip is loosening, though not by his own design. His hand slips to rest on his stomach and his head begins to droop. It's really not that painful, he reasons. It looks worse than it feels, because all he feels is tired. It's not blood that's flowing but energy, gently draining the life from his body and wrapping him in the dark embrace. It's not that bad. It could be worse. Hell, if anyone knows that, it's Dave. He was lucky this time. Just a nick. It'll heal up in no time. Maybe he'll wake up by tomorrow.

He slumps forward a little, unable to sit up properly. His muscles are all relaxing and it's not entirely unpleasant. The darkness wraps him up and he knows it's soon.

But...somehow, for the first time since he can remember,

It scares him.


	39. Too Soon

_Am I dead?_

The ache in Dave's body tells him otherwise, but there is always the chance he has slipped away from the mortal coil and gone straight to hell. He wouldn't be surprised, really; Dave is no saint. Maybe he really is set for eternal damnation.

Slowly, he begins to ease the life back into his listless limbs. He rolls his shoulders, trying to take stock of everything, but it's too much, too soon, and he slumps to his side. He's just so fucking _tired._

Maybe this is hell. His own, personalized hell-an endless agony of immovability wrapped up in the dull throb coursing through his veins.

But no, it's not hell, because Dave can hear birds chirping and leaves rustling and he's pretty sure neither would belong in the fiery pits, so he's come back to live another day. He tries to start smaller this time-moving his fingers-and though it's hard, he does feel them respond to his commands. Maybe his immortality juice is wearing off, he thinks. He always wakes up feeling shitty, but it's never this bad.

Soon Dave has had enough and he forces himself to his feet despite his physical limitations. He staggers a few steps and bounces off a couple of trees, spinning in circles and grabbing at branches to keep from falling down again. Shit. This isn't going well. He's an easy target like this, though he can't imagine why anyone else would be in the forest. This forest.

Rose's forest.

When had he gotten here? Had he really just snuffed it so close to her house? That was plain fucking ridiculous. A half hour's walk and he would've been at her doorstep. Instead, he'd-what, fallen out of a tree? Shit, he had. What a disgrace. If it was that dumb a death, maybe he deserved it. Falling out of trees. Jesus.

Blindly, Dave stumbles through the woods, his body acting more by instinct than design. When he finally breaks free of the brush-more than an hour longer than expected, due to his glacial pace-he has a sudden moment of panic. What the hell is he doing? Does he think seeing Rose will make this _better_?

As much as Dave's mind protests, however, his legs seem keen on taking him all the way. Mutiny. betrayal. He'd cut them off to teach them a lesson if he didn't think he'd wake up half a month later with everything in tact.

Dave collapses against the front door with a _thump_, forehead and chest pressed hard against the heavy wood. He can't bring himself to knock or even ring the doorbell. Shit, he doesn't really want to be here, anyway. He's just bringing chickie more trouble like the asshole he is. She doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

But he can't move.

After ten minutes of semi-conscious stupor, he's roused by the sounds of movement by the front hall. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. What if it's Rose?

What if it's _not_?

Shit.

There's little Dave can do, however, and when the door swings open he goes swinging with it.

"Holy shit!" Rose grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him upright. "Dave, what in god's name _happened_ to you?"

"Hey, chickie," he breathes, trying to smile but getting nowhere. His facial muscles feel like they've been on ice for an hour and the rest of him isn't far behind. "Nothing much."

"You look horrible."

"Fine and dandy," says Dave. "Just peachy."

"Come inside and lie down. You look...just _awful_." Even the award-winning writer is at a loss for words. She pulls Dave inside and he totters mechanically after her.

"I'm okay," he lies. "Just a little tired."

"I am so sure." Rose pushes him into a squashy armchair and he topples, unable to refuse. "Let me look at you."

"I'm fine."

"You are clearly _not_ fine, Dave." She puts a palm to his forehead and frowns. "You're very warm. Dangerously warm, I would think. Perhaps what you need is a hospital."

Dave reaches up and curls his fingers loosely around her wrist, slowly pushing it away. "I'm always on fire. You know that. Life as normal. I'm not going."

"Don't lie to me." Rose moves her hand to the side and his arm spreads in turn. "A nice little acquisition you have there. Is it infected?"

Dave's eyes dart to his arm fast enough to make his vision swim. When it clears, he stares in horrified surprise. "That never happens."

"You never cut yourself, in all your time on the streets? Consider me impressed. Though that throws your whole 'I'm not a murderer' spiel into question."

"No, that _doesn't happen._" Dave pulls away from her quickly, running his opposite hand over the recently recovered wound. "Shit. Shit."

"Don't touch it," Rose scolds, quickly grasping his wrist and dragging his hand from the wound. "If it isn't infected now, it will be with all the hobo scum you no doubt have attached to your skin."

"This doesn't happen," Dave says again, more forcefully this time. "It doesn't. I-shit." He can't quite articulate his thoughts but he knows this has to be bad, very bad, because Dave has never, ever woken up with an injury left unhealed. Sure, he's not bleeding like a stuck pig, but anything less than perfect is something to be concerned over. There's no reason for him to be like this, to be this-for a lack of a better word-_dead._

Then, something in his mind clicks. He wonders why he hadn't put it together before.

He woke up too soon.

It was the only explanation, really, for feeling this bad, for the line of candy red across the soft skin of his upper arm. None of this should have happened. This never happens because Dave always wakes up when he's supposed to, once his magical mojo has repaired all the damage of the previous life. He just beat resurrection to the punch this time, and all it got him were jelly limbs and a broken brain.

Dave feels suddenly very, very ill. He wants to lie down, but more than that he wants to curl up and die because then at least he'd be out of his misery until his damned body fixed itself.

"Dave. Dave, stay with me." Rose's voice is distant in his ears and he's suddenly aware of her arms around him, coaxing him back to lucidity. "Come on, now. Stay with me."

"I'm here," he says. "Relax."

"I should very much think not. Come upstairs and we'll clean you up."

Dave shakes his head. "It's fine. Just a bath or something. I'll be fine."

"And have you drown?"

"Not for long," says Dave.

"Oh, _that_ makes it better." Rose stands up. "Come with me, Dave. I'll tend to you upstairs."

"Nah, chickie, it's alright," mutters Dave. "I'm good. Just a little tired. I'm fine here, in this chair. Don't worry about me."

"It is too late for that!" Rose snaps. "Dave, I am very, _very_ tired of people telling me that they're fine when _clearly there is a problem_! You are _not_ alright!"

"No problem," says Dave. "Just fine." His mind is a blanket of static white and he already feels himself slipping away, but for some reason he is very against submitting to her care. She has enough problem kids on her hands, she doesn't need another. He's fine or, at least, he will be.

"That is not the appropriate answer!"

Dave rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb and takes a deep breath. "Rose. It's alright. It looks worse than it is."

"Fine. You know what? Fine. If you say you are okay, I will believe you. Do what you want." Rose folds her arms and spins on her heel, clearly giving up. Dave can't blame her. He wonders how many times she's gone through this. Dave is just one fool too many. "Conversation over."

"Chickie," Dave calls blearily. He doesn't want her to be mad. He needs her. "No, stop. I... Shit. I'm not trying to... Please."

"Dave, you came to me for help."

"No, I..." Dave trails off. "I don't know why I came."

"For help," says Rose.

"No, I don't want to-you have work already, shit to do. I... Jesus." Dave rubs his temples now, roughly, unable to extract either words or meaning from the buzzing mesh that was his mind. "You have so much work. And other people."

"Yes, but none of those things currently takes precedence over you." Rose gently puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls him to his feet. From there she wraps an arm around his waist and guides him up the stairs. Neither one says much as she deposits him on the bathroom floor and begins to clean both the wound and his stained arms. The water is warm and, to his body's credit, the cut doesn't sting when she tends to it. He leans against the bathtub, only semi-conscious, watching her through partially lidded eyes. He closes them when she begins to wipe the smudges from his face, lulled into soft feelings by the cleanliness. He's on the edge of drifting off when he feels her hands travel to the hem of his shirt, beginning to ease it up over his torso.

Immediately, Dave sits up, wrenching the fabric from her grip and shoving it back down, low over his hips. Rose starts, surprised at the sudden burst of consciousness, but Dave is too busy trying to read her face, too busy trying to judge how much she's seen to care.

"Dave?" she asks, the uncertainty plain in her voice. "Are you alright? It wasn't my intention to startle you."

"Did you see."

"See what?" Rose purses her lips, eyebrows knitted together in thought. "Are you hurt elsewhere and you aren't telling me?"

"No. No. Swear to god I'm not. Just don't-don't look." The adrenaline rush is fading and Dave is starting to lose his coherency. His body feels numb and he's starting to collapse again. "Just...Let me sleep."

"Dave, you seem really ill." Rose slides her palm across his cheek, her expression concerned. Dave wants to reassure her but all he can do is meet her violet eyes with his shaded orange ones.

"It's alright," he says. "I heal fast."

"I really think some outside help would be beneficial here, Dave. I don't have the experience necessary to-"

"You're fine. It's fine. I just need time." He pulls away and struggles to his feet, holding on to the porcelain sink for support. It's slippery, but it holds his weight and he's able to stay up for the time being.

"Very well. Come with me. If you insist on refusing medical help, at least go to bed."

"Yeah. Wait. No. Couch. I'll sleep on the couch."

"You will sleep in a bed."

If only he could stop his damned head from spinning, this whole ordeal would be much easier. "No, I'm still-I'm still dirty."

"Yet another reason why you should sleep in a bed. Sheets, I can clean. A couch is a whole other matter entirely." Without another moment's hesitation, Rose hooks an arm around his waist and leads him into the second door on the left, pausing to throw back the sheets before she presses him into bed.

"This is your room," Dave observes thickly.

"Yes, it is. Now go to sleep, Dave." Rose wraps the covers around him and runs her fingers briefly through his hair. "We'll see how you are in the morning. Try to call if you need anything, hm?"

Dave tries to reply, but his words stick in his throat and he nods. Rose smoothes his hair once, adjusts his bedding, and then disappears out into the hall. Any feelings of protest Dave might have had before leave with her, and he's left to the darkness once again.

Maybe this time he'll get it right.


	40. I Told You So

"Dave?"

The voice that rouses Dave from the depths of unconsciousness is laden with worry. He struggles a little to sit, but he's quickly pushed back down by a hand planted firmly on his chest.

"No, stay there. I don't want you irritating your injury." Now that she knows Dave is awake, the clinical mask has returned to her tone. "I was merely-"

"Making sure I wasn't dead, yeah."

Dave doesn't have to see her to know that she's pursing her lips, slightly peeved at the bluntness of his statement. Her chair creaks a little as she leans back, and her dim outline tells Dave she's crossed both her arms and her legs, the body-language equivalent of an impenetrable fortress. Dave wants to tell her to relax, that she doesn't have to be afraid, to hide anything. His throat doesn't seem to agree, though, and it won't let the words pass to his lips. Soon, he gives up, focussing his attention now in the tired stiffness of his body.

He lifts a hand and flexes his fingers. It's better than yesterday by a long shot, but he's not all the way there yet. His head feels better too; the dizzying wall of static seems to have gone. Now Dave sits up, despite Rose's tongue-cluck protest. He reaches out and pats her gently on the head in the dark.

"It's alright, chickie," he says. "I'm okay."

"Yes," she replies coldly. "And you were 'okay' yesterday, as well."

"Yeah, not my finest moment. I'm alright now, though. Turn on the light, I'll prove it."

"Prove it?" She sounds almost intrigued and it makes Dave's lips turn up in the faintest smile. Her mask has been slipping for a while and it makes him happy. Maybe he'll get to see the chickie that lives behind all the walls she'd built up for herself.

"Yeah."

Rose reaches over to the bedstand and flicks the light on. It takes a moment for Dave to grow used to the warm glow and he realizes his shades have been folded neatly at the lamp's base.

"I hope you don't mind," Rose says, following his gaze. "I was under the impression you were, ah, a little less attached."

"No, they're stil my favourite thing," Dave says, eyes lingering on the shades before flicking back to Rose. "I just don't have to wear them as much." He always keeps them close, his only remaining physical reminder of the world that once was. It's his memento of _his_ John, the glasses given to him by _his_ best friend for _his_ birthday. He's in constant concern for their safety, but they've held up shockingly well over the years. Maybe his deathlessness applied to them, as well. Hell, they were pretty much a part of him at this point, anyway.

"Well, I have no intention of breaking them," Rose says.

"I know."

"At any rate, I think you have something to prove to me."

"Insistent lil chickie, aren't you. Yeah, alright, gather 'round children while this feathery asshole does some magic tricks." His mouth is on autopilot at this point and he's working at the knot on the bandage. It's frustratingly difficult to do with one hand and he's relieved when Rose pushes him away to undo it herself. In no time at all, she's helping him unwind the linen length and gathering it in her hand. Dave watches her, feeling a little embarassed that he's so interested in her actions. Her hands are gentle as she pulls the final coil and deposits the lot in the little bin beside the bed.

"Well?"

Dave pulls back the square of gauze and holds out his arm for her inspection. Without saying anything, she runs her fingers over the pink line of freshly scarred skin that is all that remains of his wound.

She looks up at him. "I suppose I will have to believe all of your stories now, hm?"

"Looks like it," Dave replies.

Rose returns to studying his arm. "Then...am I to assume that by the blood on your clothes, you 'died' recently?"

Dave shifts uncomfortably under her grip. He's long grown accustomed to his own deaths, but he doesn't know how she'll take them. "Uh. Yeah."

"...I see." Her fingers trail along the new skin in contemplation. "I thought you didn't scar."

"I don't," says Dave. "I'm not good with guessing times, but it'll probably be gone by tomorrow."

"Indeed?" Her hand stills, resting on his arm, though her thumb does smooth over the line every so often. Dave is trying to read her but he's shitty with humans and he's shitty with feelings so he's unable to decipher anything. He enjoys this soft closeness, though, the affection pooling in the void in which once there was none.

"Yeah," he says with uncertainty. "I-I might have woken up a little early this time, I think. It's not usually this shitty. Sorry you had to see this."

Rose looks up at him, her expression incomprehensible to him. She slides her hand from his arm to his back and gives it a little rub. "Dave, you are my brother. If you are hurt, by all means, _come_ _to me_. You don't need to suffer alone. It's idiotic."

Dave shrugs. "I guess. You've got a lot on your plate, though, chickie. I'm not about to go piling my shit there, too."

"You should."

"It's not fair to you."

"Life's not fair."

"Well, it should be." Dave leans forward and kisses the top of her head. "You've done a hell of a lot for your ragtag team and you need a break. If I'm going to go all big-bro on your ass and keep you in line, I can't be dragging you down."

"Don't say things like that," she says, voice rising with anger. "It's not their-"

"Fault, yeah, I know. It still _happens_, though, doesn't it. You can play the saint all you want, but shit, you don't have to just take it. It's ok to say it's hard if it is, chickie. You're only human."

The stiffness seems to ebb from Rose's posture. "It...it is hard."

"Good girl." Dave pulls her into a little hug.

"This doesn't mean you can't come to me, Dave." She hesitates. "If anything, it's...easier that you do."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes," she says simply, clearly unwilling to elaborate.

"Alright. Cool."

For a moment they stay like that, Rose leaning a little awkwardly into Dave's embrace. Soon, however, she rises, and her hands are once again busy pressing Dave back into the bed.

"Damn, chickie, you'll have to buy me dinner and a movie first. That's how it works, right?" Dave teases.

Rose snorts. "Oh, yes, because if I were to seduce someone it would be _you_."

"Hobo-chic is in this year," Dave replies.

"Hobo-chic, yes. Actual hobo, never." Rose pulls the covers up and tucks him in, though Dave swears he'd seen a little glimmer of a smile behind the everpresent smirk. "Rest, Dave. If you are supposed to be asleep until you've healed, I am not one to argue with your body's schedule."

Dave nearly retorts, "_but you're the one that woke me up"_ but he holds his tongue. "Thanks, chickie."

"Good night, Dave."

"Night." Rose closes the door and the last stream of light is cut from view, returning Dave to the darkness once again.

This time, he welcomes it.


	41. A Mattress of Fine Literature

When Dave next awakes, he finds he has returned to his normal state of undeath. His limbs are still stiff, yes, and he is still a little shaky, but he is alive. The scar on his arm disappeared during the night, as he guessed it would, and he is able to stand. Slowly, he begins to flex each muscle, drawing the life of movement back into his body. His fear is beginning to dissolve and the knot in his stomach lessens.

"Chickie?" he calls, stepping out from the dark bedroom. No answer comes. He wonders if she's gone out. He wanders a little aimlessly through the halls, thinking he would really appreciate a bath or a shower right now. Really, any sort of ablution would do, even a soapy sink and a towelette if necessary. He's done it before; he can do it again.

When Dave reaches the living room and his eyes come to rest on the couch, he gives a start. Rose is lying there, curled up beneath a thin blanket, fast asleep. Unsure, he approaches.

"Chickie?" he repeats, softer this time. She readjusts herself restlessly beneath the cover but does not get up. Dave decides not to disturb her. He searches quietly—guiltily—through the linen closet and fetches himself a few clothes, then retreats to the bedroom to find some of John's ratty old clothes in the drawer. Once sufficiently stocked, he goes to the bathroom and gets to work.

To Dave's surprise, his ritual is much shorter than usual, possibly because he doesn't feel the need to savour the heat and cleanliness of the shower. He steps out and towels off, then pulls on the clothes that feel too long and too wrong for his small frame. He frowns at himself in the mirror, pulling absently at a lock of carroty hair. He surveys the pointed white face poking out behind the soggy orange mop and shivers with distaste. It's not often that he's given a chance to really look at himself, and he's starting to think it's for the best.

He misses his old body. It wasn't perfect, but it was his.

Well, whatever. Dave gathers up the clothes he had once sworn to take care of and subsequently, failed miserably protecting. The bloodstains are not as hideously clear this time, at least, but they're still noticeable and the tears in his jeans are becoming more noticeable by the day. He wonders what Rose would say now that she was better. He hopes she won't have to go out and buy him fresh clothes again.

He hopes that she does anyway.

It's selfish of him and he feels sick at the thought, but he remembers so vividly opening the parcels and how it meant infinitely more to him than it should have. The feel of the soft new fabrics, the comforting colour…

No. Dave had a roof over his head and he was clean and he might even get some food later. That was all he needed. He couldn't ask Rose for any more. Not that he would, of course—he was finding it increasingly difficult to ask for anything at all. He just went with the flow of things around her, unable to bring himself to make any real effort at changing the directions of events.

Dave returns to the bedroom and flips on the light, taking this newfound free time to peruse the belongings she kept on display. He ran a finger over the titles of the books she kept, noting the entire eighteen tome series of books based on the Fthulhu mythos. After everything that had happened, she still had an interest in the grimdark. Of _course_ she did; this was Rose he was talking about, after all. Queen of the Horrorterrors.

Pushed off to the side, however, in a much more modest section of the bookcase, Dave notices a familiar cover and hefts it out. He smiles, running his hand over the glossy front. It's reasonably massive, the width of at least two or three of the Fthulhu books, and heavy. He recognizes it, though, because it was the first and only thing he's stolen not out of necessity, but want.

This is her book.

He's read it several times, and though he can't claim to understand it exactly, he revelled in the words every time. He pretended she was reading it to him sometimes, when he was at his lowest in the gutters. He'd take comfort in her turns of phrase and recognize more than a few events of the game, more in tone than in writing itself.

He sits on the bed, flipping through the pages. He had been upset when he lost it, suffering a momentary chink in the ice that was his chest. He had felt then, momentarily, though it was long gone. The warmth of the words—in principle, not in practice—still washes over him as he skims a few lines. It makes Dave miss her again in a way he doesn't really understand, because he's sitting on her bed in her house with her sleeping on the couch just a flight of steps away.

Dave closes the book and the award insignia on the cover glints at him. Her book had become very popular in a shockingly short period of time, especially when considering the bizarre style of her writing. Nevertheless, mystifying seemed to be the new literary chic and her book had risen to the top of the charts, though as far as Dave could tell she never really shared the limelight with it. The focus was on book over author, and though the hype was just starting to die down, even he had heard people talking about the possibility of a sequel.

Dave wonders if they're right. They couldn't possibly be right, though, because Rose is busy. She's always busy doing other things. She has school and, maybe worse, she has three problematic friends to keep on the right side of sanity. She doesn't have time. Right?

"May I ask what you're doing?"

Startled, Dave looks up. "Oh. Hey, chickie. I found your book."

"Ah. Yes, I see that."

"It…it's really good," he says, unable to think of what to say.

"I think you'll find that once you read it, it will be very much _less_ good and very more _impossibly enigmatic,_" she replies.

"What." Dave glances down at the book and back at her. "What. Wait, no, I mean, I've already read it. A lot. I've read it loads of times."

She raises her eyebrows slightly. "Have you now?"

"Yeah, of course. I can't have my lil sis being all famous and not partake in celebration of what got here there." He lifts the book and gives half a smile. "Besides, it made a pretty good mattress while it lasted."

"No doubt." Rose sits beside him on the bed, taking the book into her hands. "I had no idea it would be this popular. I wrote most of it in high school, that should tell you something about the quality." She flips through the pages almost carelessly, a look of slight annoyance playing across her features as she regards the inky lines flying past. "I edited it all in the first half of my freshman year at university, then sent it off." Her voice is almost bitter as she speaks.

"Rejection?"

"It was accepted by the first company I sent it to. Really, I don't know what they were thinking."

Dave understands, though. The little insignia on the spine indicates it's by the same company as her Fthulhu books, and he's pretty damn sure that they didn't exactly have mass applications coming in. He doesn't say that, though, because he really does like the book and hell, it got popular regardless of what seedy branch publisher she sent it to.

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. "They were thinking, hey, man, put down that joint and let's make ourselves some rich sons of bitches. This here book's a winner."

Rose snorts. "Surely."

"No, chickie, it's really good." He rubs her arm and looks at it. "I was really pissed when some fellow drifters decided to use it as fucking kindling."

"A better use than most," she replies.

"Shut up," says Dave. "It's good, alright. I liked it."

"No offense, Dave, but you are a _hobo_."

"Yeah, well, you never grow out of good taste." He shrugs. "I'm proud of you. You did—you did really well. I was really happy when I saw it."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. It is." Dave gives her another squeeze and to his surprise, she rests her head on his shoulder.

"You really like it?"

"Of course I do. Cetus was one badass motherfucker when it came down to it."

She gives a sudden loud laugh and claps her hands to her mouth, shocked at her own reaction. "Yes. Well. I suppose you would see it that way."

"Hey, he won the game, didn't he? I'm pretty sure that counts for a lot."

Her lavender eyes flick to his face. "You knew?"

"It's pretty obvious if you know where you're coming from, chickie." He taps the cover with his forefinger. "I'm not saying I got the nitty gritty details you hid all up in there, but I got the bigger stuff, yeah."

There is a moment of silence in which Rose traces the lettering on the front cover with her fingertips. "Are you really proud of me?"

"Yeah. Super proud. You're amazing." He pulls her close and plants a soft kiss on the top of her head. "But we all knew you'd do it." He hesitates. "I mean—I—"

"Thank you, Dave," she says, blessedly interrupting his fuckup.

"Best sister, best author."

"Well, then," she says, slipping from his embrace and standing up. "I think you are in dire need of some breakfast."

"Yeah. Sounds good."

Rose chuckles as she leaves, but Dave can't help but notice her run a hand across her cheek, wiping her eye as she disappears into the hall. He smiles.

_ I'm proud of you, chickie._


	42. Important

"Here you are."

Dave looks up from the old copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ he had been reading. It wasn't really his style, but nothing Rose had was really his style and at least this was tolerable. He hasn't had much reading material over the years, though, and he had found it difficult to jump right in with a fucking Fthulhu chronicle, so instead he picked some children's literature. Best kind, really; adult tomes were too dreary, took themselves too seriously. What was the point of reading to escape when the escape was worse than normal life?

"What's that?" Dave asks, though he's pretty sure he knows. He doesn't want to look greedy, as though he automatically expects her to fix him. She has enough of that from everyone else. If he could, he would be the one to pamper her. It annoys Dave a little that he can't do anything, so he thinks that it's the least he could do to just pretend.

"I think we have gone through this before." Rose deposits the parcel on his lap. This time, it is not individually wrapped. The package is fat on his lap and he is a little less hesitant to open it now.

Fresh orange clothes, just as before. He caresses them a little and then quickly acts as though he hasn't, feeling embarrassed.

"Thanks, chickie," he mutters. "They're perfect. Again. Sorry."

Rose sits beside him and smoothes his hair. "Don't apologize. I hardly think it's your fault."

"I'm still making you get me shit."

"You are not making me do anything." Her hand drops to his arm and she pressures her fingertips against it. It takes him a moment to realize she wants to check the scar, but he knows there's no scar to check. He holds it out anyway and she inspects until she's satisfied.

"I suppose you really were telling the truth."

"I thought you already believed me."

"It is hard to believe," she replies. "You will have to forgive me for that. Every piece of evidence to the positive makes it both clearer and harder to swallow."

Dave rests his hand on top of her head. "Don't worry about it."

"I must."

"No, you shouldn't. I'm here, I'm fine. It doesn't matter."

"It matters, Dave." She leans against him and he circles an arm around her shoulders. "It was terrifying."

"It was?" He looks at her, surprised.

"Dave, you came to my house at seven in the morning, covered in blood for what I should add was the _second_ time, sick to death and pale as a ghost."

"I'm always pale," says Dave.

"That should give you something of an indicator of how you looked, then," she replies. "I thought you were going to die."

"I can't die."

"I still thought it."

Dave gives her a little squeeze. "Well, I won't. Don't worry."

Rose's shoulders stiffen beneath Dave's touch and he knows she's frustrated. "Of course I am going to _worry_. You were clearly suffering."

"It wasn't that bad."

"Do not lie to me." Her tone grows harsh and cold and even Dave shivers a little. "It was awful."

Dave sighs. "Yeah, alright, it was."

"I don't want to lose you, Dave."

"I know. You won't."

"I can't lose you. I…"

"You won't, chickie." He rubs her arm and she slumps against him, head resting on his chest.

"It's frightening. Everyone is so…so close to the edge. Always. I'm so scared I'm going to lose someone."

"You won't lose me, at least. I know it's not much of a comfort but I'm pretty sure you couldn't get rid of me if you tried," he says. "So there's that, at least. You'll always have someone." He snorts. "Even if it's some shitty old bird."

"That's not funny." She sits up again. "You…you're quickly becoming very important to me, Dave. No, you already are. You're my link, too, remember." She reaches up and grasps his hand between her slender fingers. "You're important."

Dave's heart seems to be beating uncomfortably against his chest and he pulls Rose into a tight embrace. He's important to someone. Rose thinks he's important. He's not sure if this is happiness he's feeling or relief, but beyond the discomfort it does seem kind of…nice.

"Thanks," he mutters. "You're important, too. The most important."

She chuckles and Dave's whole body shakes on contact. "I know."

"You're my world, chickie."

"I know."

"Even if you don't feel the same."

Rose pulls away and Dave releases her, thinking he's gone too far. Shit. That was too easy to understand, he's definitely added a level of squick to this that no one should ever have to fac—

She smoothes his hair once more and smiles ever so slightly. "I know it's different for you, Dave. I have people. You just have me. I understand. But other Rose is in here, too, and it's the same for her. I promise."

At this, Dave can't help but hug his sister again. "Thanks, chickie. I…thanks."

Rubbing his back gently, she replies, "It's alright, Dave. You aren't alone anymore."

"I know. I…"

"There's my good little bird." With a final little rub, she slips out of his grasp and stands up. "Now. Are you going to show me your new feathers?"

Dave looks down at the parcel on his lap, suddenly realizing he's completely forgotten it. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I can't go around looking like a hobo when my lil sis needs me to be all respectable." He stands up, cradling the treasures in one arm, and pats her briefly on the head before absconding to the bathroom.

He's important. Rose thinks he's important. _Him_.

And he's happy.


	43. If You Want to Reach Me

"Dave?"

Dave hesitates at the door, his heart thudding uncomfortably against his chest. For all his practice sneaking around, Rose is still infuriatingly good at catching him in the act. "Hey, chickie."

"Are you leaving?" Rose pulls her trailing blanket tighter around her shoulders as she surveys him, her features set in her own variation of the blank face. He had never realized how similar they were, how well she could bluff. It was almost unnerving.

"No," says Dave, more as a reflex than an answer.

"You always say that." She comes closer, careful not to step on the duvet excess. "Will you ever say goodbye? Or am I to expect an empty couch instead?"

"I'm not leaving," he says again. It's true, he's not. Probably. All he wanted was some fresh air, to move about and to think about his next move. He loves Rose, but he can't stay with her forever. He can't be that person.

"Of course," she replies in a voice that clearly states her disbelief. "Very well. Wait there a moment." She turns on her heel and pads softly back up the stairs, leaving Dave with no choice but to obey. He leans awkwardly against the door, the metal rods of the frosted windows pressing into his back. The weather is getting warmer but it's still cool in the morning, and Dave expects frost on the grass when he gets out.

_If_ he gets out.

Rose returns shortly and descends all the way this time, coming to stop less than a foot in front of him. He stares, nervous and completely unsure of what to do.

"Give me your hand," Rose orders. He does. "Thank you." She slips something cold and smooth into his hand and he looks down.

"Shit," says Dave. "No."

"Yes."

"No, I can't take this. Chickie, I can't take—"

"Take it." She closes his fingers around it. "Please."

Slowly, Dave gives the present another once over. It's too expensive, too good for him. "Chickie, I—"

"My number is the first on your contact list. John's is second."

He flips the cellphone open and she's right, he sees little names on the screen with stars. "I…I can't…"

"Charging it will be difficult, but I am sure you can manage. It's a very basic model, Dave. Very sturdy." She hands him the charger and it seems oddly small. Of course it's small, everything's small. Fuck, he's been out of civilization for far too long. He shoves the charger into his pocket automatically and turns his attention back to the phone.

"This is too much." He holds it back out to her, oblivious to the fact that he has just accepted half the gift.

Rose just shakes her head and slips her hands under the blanket. "It is more for me than for you, Dave."

"How is—"

"This is your collar."

"What?" Dave doesn't understand. A phone is a phone. He hasn't needed one for years. Hell, he doesn't need one _now_, either, because even though he has people to call, he has nothing to say to them.

"Your collar," she repeats. "You said you needed a cage, didn't you? Well, this is so that I don't lose you when you're out flying about."

"But…it's…expensive," he says dumbly. His mind is too numb to work properly and he's still stuck on staring at the phone, flipping it open and closed, running his thumb over the buttons.

"No, it was shockingly cheap. I thought you would prefer one without all of the fancy bells and whistles new models come with, so I was able to get quite the bargain."

"But—"

"I will feel safer if you carry this," she says, and the argument is over. Dave knows he's lost. He slips the phone into his other pocket and runs his hand over his hair sheepishly.

"…Thanks." He glances up at her with half a smile and is startled when she answers it with her own.

"There is a good little bird." She steps forward and pulls him into a hug and now Dave is even more bewildered. "Thank you."

What. "Chickie, I'm the one that's supposed to be saying that."

"I am thanking you because I am glad you accepted. You are an insufferably stubborn ass at times."

Dave snorts. "Thanks."

"You are welcome." She doesn't let go, though, and squeezes him tighter. Dave rests his hand on her head.

"You okay, chickie?"

"Perfectly fine," she replies. "Doubly so now that I have a means of contacting you. It was…worrisome before."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"Of _course_ I have to worry about you!" she snaps, suddenly stepping back. "You are a complete _fool_, Dave. Do you think it's easy sitting at home and thinking about you? How damned _dangerous_ your life is and how disgustingly _reckless_ you are?"

"I'm not that reck—"

"The majority of your visits have been comprised of you coming to me soaked in your own blood, Dave. Do you not see how that looks? For god's sake, you've told me you've _died_!"

"Shh, chickie, it's alright," Dave tries to soothe. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well, you have! So take that phone and make sure you call me, Dave, and tell me that you are alright. Or if you aren't. It doesn't matter which, just make sure you give me some sort of indication that you aren't lying bloody on a street somewhere, suffering."

Dave feels a little guilty and it's his turn to hug her. "It's ok, chickie. I'm sorry."

"I should hope so."

"Hey, hey. It's ok." He rubs her back with his free hand, trying to still the shaking in her shoulders. "I'm sorry. It's ok."

"Don't let yourself get hurt again."

"That's asking the impossible," he replies.

"Please, Dave. Don't die again. You're my brother."

"I won't," Dave says. It's a lie, of course, because he's died so many times that he is painfully aware of how easy it is. Somewhere along the way, he just stopped trying to prevent it. If he doesn't die on the train, he'll die on the ground.

But Rose doesn't need to know. She's got too much to handle and it's pretty damn clear that Dave isn't helping. He's just another problem kid, not the solution he wanted to be.

So he promises himself that he'll lie next time. Hell, he'll burn his old clothes and steal some fresh ones if he has to. Anything to keep up the illusion.

"Stay safe."

"I will."

Rose breaks away from him and Dave can't really tell but he thinks she might have been crying. Damn, he is just the shittiest brother. He's got to step up his game if he's ever going to be useful to her. It's his number one goal.

He'd like to be useful again.

"Make sure you call," Rose reminds.

"I know."

"It bears repeating," she says, narrowing her eyes. "You don't have to say much. Just make sure you do it."

"Alright. I will."

"Good-bye, Dave."

"Bye, chickie." Dave pauses to kiss the top of her head once more, gives a brief one-handed wave, and vanishes.


	44. The High Ground

Dave slides his hand over the back of his neck and gives it a rub. Even after all of his time outside, his body has never really grown a defense against the sun. It's mid-afternoon and the sun is beating down now, and he can feel the prickling heat of a burn starting to form. He's starting to think it was a stupid idea to climb up here, that he should just give up and go somewhere else. Hell, it's probably dangerous.

Dave is just beginning to lift his body down over the edge of the roof when he catches the gleam of a pair of shades somewhere down below. He scrambles to roll back over onto the gravel top, out of sight. If he was seen, there's no indication of it. After a few minutes of silent breathing and pressing himself flat against the pebbly concrete, he begins to slide ever so carefully to the edge.

"Sorry, bro. It's not in yet." The store owner is flipping through the pages on a clipboard, double checking his inventory for whatever it is that Dave's once-brother seems to want.

"Yeah? Fuck. Well, whatever. I'm sure a smooth dude like me can find an adequate replacement in time." Bro is chill, as always, and the only indication of his frustration is when the grey hat comes off and he rifles his fingers through his hair, making the ends stick up before flattening them back down when he replaces it. The gesture is one of the few things Dave remembers, and he wonders vaguely if Bro was looking for a crucial record for one of his songs.

The store owner's voice is weary, but it glows with a faint bit of pride when he speaks to Bro. His store is Bro's first choice, after all, and that's brought him some extra business from copycats. "You always do. When's your next gig?"

"Tonight, then Tuesday."

The store owner lets out a low whistle. "Stepping up your game, huh?"

"Hey, man, I've got a little bastard to put through college, don't I? Man cannot live on smuppet empire alone."

Dave suddenly feels very weird for listening to this conversation. Bro is talking about his doppelganger and it's so casual that it makes Dave cringe.

_Of course it's casual, _Dave reminds himself. _He's not the one with the problem._

"How's he doing?" the store owner asks.

Bro shrugs, flashing a lopsided grin. "As well as you can expect a Strider to do."

"Top of his class, then?"

Bro barks a laugh. "Yeah. Glad you get me, bro, most people assume the worst."

"Nah, not with you. With the sense of rhythm you've got, I'd be surprised if the little tyke didn't have some sort of ridiculous talent to match."

"Careful, Sal, you're making me blush. You've already got a loyal customer; keep this going any further and you'll have a bedmate, too."

Now Dave is embarrassed because it's been just long enough that he's lost the ability to properly decipher Bro's double language. Is Bro actually asking him out? No, that would be weird. Bro has better taste than that. Surely it's a joke.

Dave rubs his temples between his forefinger and thumb. He's getting bad at this, way too bad. If he can't even understand the man who raised him for thirteen years, he's fallen pretty fucking far.

Meanwhile, the owner just laughs. "If it's you, Strider, I don't think that'd be too bad. Are you taxiing these back to your apartment or what?"

And it's done. It was a joke after all. It's a little comforting, because Dave doesn't really want to spy on Bro as he's trying to charm someone into bed with him. It's creepy enough that he's playing the stalker already; he shouldn't encroach on Bro's private life.

"Yeah, I don't think I can drag this monster back to my place alone." Bro pats the amplifier appreciatively. "Well, I could, but I've gotta treat these ladies right or they'll never sing for me."

The store owner nods. "I'll call you a cab, then. Sit tight, Strider." He does a half salute and walks back into the shop.

Now Bro is alone and Dave starts to feel the anxiety creeping up from his stomach and across his shoulders. Dave's hidden but he's not _that_ hidden; orange is a pretty damn obnoxious colour and Dave is pretty sure at least some of his carroty hair has to be visible peeking out above the roof.

Bro is leaning on the amp now, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. It's not a sign of impatience—Dave remembers that much, at least—but he is still amusing himself as he waits. His eyes are shielded behind his pointy shades, but Dave thinks he's checking out the store display.

As weird as it is to be watching Bro like this, it does seem to soothe a part of Dave that hasn't really recovered. They aren't talking and they aren't together, but at least Dave can see him sitting down there, calm and cool as though nothing's ever happened. Oblivious.

Dave rests his chin on his arms, shifting a little to keep the jagged gravel from digging too much into any one part of his body. He can hear the scratching of rock on concrete as he adjusts, but he's pretty sure the sound is carried away by the breeze.

The owner returns and they shake hands. In a few minutes, a yellow cab pulls up and the two begin diligently loading equipment into the back, careful to pack properly to ensure the safety of Bro's stuff. Once the taxi is full, Bro turns to the owner and offers him a brofist, which the owner takes. Bro grins and the store owner disappears back into his shop.

Dave waits for Bro to get in the cab, a little disappointed that his voyeuristic venture has come to an end so soon. He's tempted to follow the man, what? Back to the apartment? But he knows he can't.

A flurry of movement down below draws Dave's attention and his heart stops. He can feel the breath inside him freeze up and he has to force himself to exhale, his mind too numb to function. He only begins to recover once the cab pulls away from the curb, Bro tucked comfortably inside.

That didn't just happen. That shouldn't have happened.

Bro had waved at him.


	45. He Could Be Larping Silent Hill

"Are you nearby?"

Dave sits up straighter at the tone of urgency in his sister's voice. He glances at the phone, then the street name emblazoned on the street corner post. "I'm in the city, yeah," he says slowly, unsure.

"Help me."

"What's wrong?" Dave tries to keep his own voice level, but it's a request that makes him freeze in horrid anticipation. He knows he should determine the threat level before he panics, but it's difficult. "Chickie?"

"There's…look, I'm on the bus. Where are you?"

"Near the university," Dave admits. A sudden irrational part of him is glad she's not here to raise an eyebrow at him. He's not stalking her. He's not. He just happened to be in the neighbourhood, that's all. He wanted to surprise her.

A fleeting thought says, _Jesus dick, I am a stalker. Fuck my life._

"Good. When the six east passes by, get on."

"I don't have money for fare."

"It doesn't matter, I'll pay. Just make sure you get on." She hangs up.

Dave stares at the home screen of his phone, confused. He's not really sure what to expect, so his mind races to the worst of the worst. The trouble is, however, he's not really sure what actually constitutes _worst_ at this point, because now his interpretation of _worst_ is mutant dogs and shitty swords, and he's pretty sure neither of those is the problem. He takes solace in the fact that Rose was speaking relatively normally, though rather hushed. On the bus, huh. What the fuck sort of issue would that bring up?

Bombs?

Unless she's expecting him to act as a meat shield, which he supposes might be marginally effective depending on the blast range, he's not going to be very helpful.

By the time the 6E rolls to a stop in front of him, his entire body is jittering. He's not sure what to expect so he forces his legs forward anyway, his knees feeling weak with dread. He stands in front of the driver dumbly for a minute and they share a long look.

"Well?" says the driver.

Dave panics and begins to pat his clearly empty pockets. "Uh. I. Uh."

"Thank you for waiting." Coins clink smoothly into the slot and Rose takes Dave by the wrist, pulling him forcibly back to her seat and sitting him down beside her. She clutches his arm stiffly while keeping Dave firmly trapped in the world of surreal possibility.

"Uh," says Dave again.

Rose pulls out her own cell phone, a chic purple design, and flips it open. Her thumbs fly across the tiny keys and Dave takes a moment to be impressed at her typing skills. He suddenly realizes that it's typically considered rude to watch someone texting, but the moment he looks away, she nudges him painfully in the ribs. Alright, bad move on his part. This should have been obvious.

TT: Up and to the left.

TT: Slowly.

Dave's eyes flick from the screen to the passengers across from them, then to the side. Realization dawns on him and he gives an imperceptible nod.

TT: He has been staring at me the length of the ride.

TT: It has been rather…harrowing.

No shit. The guy she's singled out is an older man, but he's built like a brick house. Rose glances up and he grins, displaying a perfect set of hockey teeth shining yellow out beneath his grizzled beard.

TT: Forgive my assumption of murderer by appearance, but one can never be too careful.

Dave isn't sure how he's supposed to answer, so he nods carefully into her hair under the guise of a one-armed hug. It's times like these that Dave wishes he really had grown, maybe put on the same kind of muscle as his Bro. Then he could be intimidating, too.

Dave is not intimidating.

Keeping up the boyfriend charade, he leans in, his lips close to her ear. "We're getting off at the next stop."

TT: That would be for the best.

"He's going to try to follow us."

Rose hesitates a little before typing, and Dave can feel the tremor running down her back.

TT: Yes.

"Don't be scared. I'm stronger than I look."

TT: He has a weapon.

Dave's eyes travel back to the leering hobo and he notes that yes, the creep is carrying a section of pipe. Christ, how stereotypically fucked up does this guy have to be? It's like he flipped through an outdated copy of _How To Spot a Serial Killer_ and decided that yes, absolutely everything in it was a good idea.

_ How the fuck is he still on the streets? _Dave wonders, irritated. He'd escaped arrest a few times himself, of course, but that only serves to infuriate him more.

"Stay in front of me when we move."

TT: What if he attacks?  
>"You run."<p>

TT: I am not going to leave you.

"Oh, hell yes you are going to leave me. You're going to run as fast as those tiny legs will carry you and you don't stop until you reach a store or a mall or some sort of populated place and then you call the fucking police."

TT: Dave.  
>"This is non-negotiable. You asked for my help, now you're going to get it."<p>

TT: Dave.

TT: I am scared.

"It's alright, chickie, the sad truth is that I know how to handle assholes like him."

TT: Dave, he's staring.

The pipe hobo smiles again and Rose shirks back against Dave's shoulder.

"Don't look at him."

TT: But

"Don't look at him, it'll just egg him on. You're interested in me, got it. It'll piss him off but his target won't be you. I'll draw the aggro."

Dave feels her shudder beneath him again, but by the look of her next text, it's not from terror.

TT: WE ARE NOT PLAYING A GOD DAMN GAME.

"I know. Just do it."

Reluctantly, Rose turns to press her face into Dave's neck. Dave can feel her breath, hot and rapid, and he rubs her shoulder with his thumb, ignoring the ever-present trembling beneath his palm. He kisses the top of her head but keeps his eyes on the enemy, staying vigilant. He may be a spectacular fuck-up, but he's not going to make mistakes when his chickie is in danger.

The scrolling sign at the front of the bus reads off the name of the next stop in a clunky pseudo-female voice.

"Ready?" Dave whispers.

"No," Rose replies quietly, her voice giving a telling squeak. He briefly touches his forehead to hers, then pulls away.

"Come on." Dave gives her arms an encouraging push and she slides her phone into her bag as she stands. Dave sees the pipe hobo moving out of the corner of his eye and he hurries her to the front of the bus. The driver waits impatiently as they quickly push by their fellow passengers—though not so quickly as to draw too much attention.

As Rose steps off the bus, Dave leans forward and orders, "_Go!_"

The moment the word has passed through his lips, he spins around and slams his fist straight into the hobo's nose.


	46. Aftermath

The driver's exclamation is drowned out by Rose's panicked shout of, "Dave!"

Dave's mind is a whirl of spinning cogs, every piece willing Rose to just get the fuck out of the way and start running. He tries to tell her to run again, but all that comes out is a piercing _CAW!_

The whistle of the pipe cutting through air alerts Dave to the attack before he sees it coming, and he ducks. The pipe clangs against the metal of a nearby pole and for a moment the hobo is distracted by the heavy vibrations running up his arm.

"Run!" Dave manages to snap between caws, annoyed at himself and annoyed at Rose for lagging behind. "I'm fine, fucking run!"

"But-"

"I said _run_!"

Rose hesitates a moment longer but she nods and takes off down the street, heels clicking on the pavement as she goes.

Good.

Dave's victory is short, however, and his own misplaced attention rewards him with a pipe end thrust straight into gut. He chokes and pain radiates from his scar. It's not a pipe, it's a sword, and he can't tell whether it's being forced in or torn out. Everything dissolves into his confusion and no, this isn't what he should be doing right now. No.

The bus driver is still shouting as Dave falls backwards out of the bus, but Dave can't quite make out the words and the hobo isn't listening, either, so it can't be important. The pavement knocks the wind out of his lungs upon impact and he shudders. He's winded, sure, but the fall has dragged him back to reality and he's ready to fight once more.

The hobo's lips part in a triumphant smile and he raises the pipe above his head, clanking it against the door of the bus, not bothering to stop the steady flow of blood issuing from his probably broken nose. Dave knows the look, the cocky arrogance of a man who thinks he's won a fight before it's over.

It's not over.

The hobo brings the pipe crashing down in front of him, sending hairline cracks running through the brittle concrete sidewalk. He freezes in utter disbelief and-what was that, _disappointment? _fucking creep-turns to look for his missing prey.

_Crack._

Dave's fist connects with the hobo's face a second time, and this time he stumbles further back into the bus, tipping over onto the driver, who is by now equal part rage and terror. A fresh wave of threats and curses explodes from the poor man, but the hobo seems disoriented and flounders in place, either ignoring or unaware of the shouts behind him.

It doesn't take a genius to know when to cut and run, so Dave hightails it out of there. It's too dangerous to stick to the path, so he sidetracks off into a sad excuse for a forest a little ways down. Here he slips between the brush and finds a good tree to scale.

Once he's settled safely on a high branch, he leans back against the trunk and snakes his phone from his pocket, gingerly surveying the damage to his stomach as he dials Rose. It doesn't _seem_ like anything's broken, and he's not bleeding out, either. Not a bad deal for a fight with a man twice his size, Dave thinks.

"Dave?"

"It's alright, chickie. It's over. Did you call the police?"

"Yes, of course I did." The initial fear in her voice quickly gives way to a cold annoyance and he smiles a little. Now that she's safe, it's time to scold him for his handling of the situation. He already knows where this will lead.

"Where are you now?" Dave asks.

"A small shop a few blocks away."

"That was fast."

"I took off my heels. You owe me a new pair of tights."

"Sure, sure." Dave's smile has come in full now and he can't help it. His little chickie was so worried about him. _Him_.

"Where are you? Clearly not six feet under."

"Yeah, I did okay. I'm in some forest down the road. I'll be there soon."

"...Alright. Be careful."

"You too, chickie." Dave flips the phone closed and returns it to its rightful pocket, then easily disengages himself from the tree. His landing is a little rough and it sends another wave of pain through his stomach, but he grits his teeth and straightens out until it fades. With any luck, the whole ugly mess will be gone in a few days.

It takes a while for Dave to find the shop Rose has taken refuge in, but he does find it eventually. The instant Dave crosses the threshold, Rose rises from the chair she had been sitting on near the front desk, clearly trying to survey any damage he's sustained. When she doesn't find anything wrong, she sprints across the store in bare feet and throws her arms around his neck.

"You are never to do that again. You are not to sacrifice your wellbeing for mine," she scolds into his neck. Dave winces a little under her grip but tries not to make it obvious. He doesn't need her getting pissed at him for something trivial like that, anyway.

"Hey chickie," is all Dave says. He pats her gently on the back and she releases him.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Dave replies. "Just a couple scrapes and bruises, no big deal. I'll be as good as new in a few days."

"Good," says Rose. "Because you're coming to stay with me."

"What."

"You heard me," she replies. "You will stay with me. Now be a good brother and escort me home. I have had a rather trying day."

"Uh...yeah," says Dave. "Yeah. Alright."


	47. No Longer Condemned to the Couch

Dave reclines a little in the firm seat of the taxi as Rose slides in. Her nose twitches a little at the pungeant odor of New York cab, but she says nothing. The taxi pulls away from the curb and they're on their way.

Dave wonders why Rose doesn't just take the cab every day. He's pretty sure she can afford it and the fumes are about on par with the typical bus passengers. Then again, this is Rose, and as much as he thinks he's starting to figure her out, she's still pretty fucking mysterious.

"Stop staring at me, Dave."

"Sorry." Surprised, Dave turns to face the window, instead.

"And sit up properly."

It pains Dave to do so, but he's trying to play it off so she won't go demanding to see the source of his discomfort. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, willing himself to heal faster. It won't work, but he knows he should be thankful for what he's got. As far as he knows, he's the only one capable of glitching his way back to health.

"Dave?"

"Yeah, chickie?"

"Are you in pain?"

"What." Dave straightens up immediately, trying to pull his expression back to poker face. "No, of course not."

"You're cradling your stomach."

"Uh, yeah. May have eaten something funny. Don't go picking random plants, you hear? Sometimes a blueberry's not just a blueberry."

Rose's eyebrows raise slightly. "Need I call poison control?"

"No," Dave says quickly. "I've got it under control."

"Quite a day we've had, hm? Accosted by a hobo and now you tell me you've eaten poison. Wonderful." Rose reaches over and Dave shirks back into his corner. She looks at him curiously. "I am only going to check your temperature."  
>"What. Oh. Yeah, alright." He relaxes a little, leaning towards her. She slides her palm over his forehead and pauses.<p>

"Well, you don't seem to have a fever. If any symptoms of serious poisoning occur, though, you will tell me."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry, chickie, everything's under control." Dave shrugs it off and Rose returns to her seat, though she's clearly watching him carefully.

For the rest of the ride, Dave keeps his hands firmly planted on either side of him, though he does want to check the severity of the mark. His leg jigs a complicated rhythm as he waits and he ignores Rose's irritated expression.

Eventually, the ride comes to an end and Rose pays the cabbie, gesturing for Dave to follow. "Come inside."

A little awkward, Dave follows. "Uh. So. What is this all about."

"Wash up first, Dave. We can talk when you are clean. I will leave clothes out for you as always," Rose instructs. Dave shifts but agrees. At least he'll be able to assess the damage.

As soon as he shuts and locks the bathroom door, he lifts his shirt to reveal the ugly black and purple marks that have blossomed over his stomach. He probes gingerly, wincing a little but overall deciding that he'll be fine. It's nothing life threatening, anyway, and for Dave that means it looks worse than it actually is. He sighs and resigns himself to his ablutions, wondering if Rose is going to try for a smaller cage.

"I'm done," Dave calls, dropping his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor and descending the staircase.

"Very good. Come here, Dave." Rose gestures for him to join her on the couch and he obeys. She pauses to smooth his fringe out of his eyes, lips twitching slightly in disdain at the length. "It looks like someone is in need of a haircut."

"I wasn't going to say anything, chickie, but maybe a trip to the parlour is in order," he says in monotone. Rose pinches his cheek and he quickly surrenders.

"Will you stay with me for a while, Dave?"

"Don't I always," Dave replies cautiously.

"A little longer this time."

He shifts uncomfortably. The bruise on his stomach makes it so that a twinge of soreness runs through his abdomen every time his muscles flex the wrong way-not quite pain, but something in the same general genre. "How much longer."

"I don't know yet."

"Then I don't know, either."

Rose sighs. "Of course."

Dave isn't really sure how he's supposed to make her feel better beyond lying because he really doesn't want to tie himself down to anything yet. He loves his chickie, but the thought of sticking to one place makes his feet itch. He can't settle down, not here, it's wrong.

"Do you require any medicine? We have a rather good selection."

"What. Why."

"For your stomach?" Up shoot Rose's eyebrows again and it takes Dave a moment to realize what she's talking about.

"Oh. Oh, no, I'm fine."

"Did you lie to me?" Rose's voice is soft and Dave knows she's trying to draw him in, to weasel whatever she thinks he's hiding from her out. It won't work, though; it can't.

"No."

"So you won't mind if I touch your poor, troubled tummy?" Rose lights her fingers across Dave's stomach before he can counteract and he springs to his feet, terrified.

"Of course I'm going to fucking mind, I've got a thousand reasons why I'm going to mind and ninety percent of them are because you're my sister," Dave snaps.

Rose looks at him for a minute, confused. She then covers her mouth and begins to shake a little, clearly trying to suppress a strange fit of giggles. "Oh, Dave. I wasn't intending to seduce you, if that's what you're thinking."

Dave can feel the colour rising in his cheeks. "Shut up. I didn't think it was a sex thing!"

"Sure. Of course you didn't think it was a 'sex thing'. I am glad to know where we stand." She can't look at him now-it's too hard to contain her laughter-so she turns her violet gaze to the coffee table instead.

"Fuck you," Dave says.

"Oh, don't be like that," Rose comforts. "Come back. I will play nice, I promise."

Dave hesitates, but he sits down again, though this time at the far end of the couch. He crosses his arms tight across his stomach and it stings, but his poker face is in place and it doesn't show in his expression. "Fine."

"You needn't do that," Rose says, touching his arm.

Still on edge, Dave pulls away from her. "Looks like I do."

"Don't be mad, Dave."

To tell the truth, Dave isn't really mad. He's too busy being terrified to be mad and his brain is currently taken up with a sort of primal white noise, blocking any sort of coherent thought from coming to light.

"Oh? So you don't want to play with me anymore?" Persisting, Rose presses her hand to his shoulder again. Dave shifts, but he doesn't throw her off.

Finally, he musters the courage to ask, "You didn't feel anything there, did you."

Rose pauses. "Is this another 'sex thing' or are you hiding something from me?"

"Neither!" Dave growls, his throat growing scratchy as he nearly reaches the level of frustration that his body believes warrants cawing. He forces himself to breathe and says, "Never mind."

Rose's suppressed giggles die down and she frowns. "Don't be offended, Dave."

"Too late for that."

"Come on. It was only gentle teasing."

"Flighty broad."

Rose smoothes his hair and he unconsciously leans in. "Good little bird."

"Fuck," mutters Dave. He curses himself but doesn't pull away.

"Are you calmer now?"

"I'm going to bed," Dave says abruptly, standing up and interrupting Rose's continued ministrations.

"Oh?" she replies, sounding almost disappointed.

"Yeah," Dave says, his resolve beginning to waver. "I...Long day. I'm going to sleep it off."

"Would you like me to leave, then?" Rose suggests. "Or perhaps you would sleep better in my room?"

"Oh." Dave had completely forgotten his usual place of rest. "Right. Couch is fine."

"Dave, you do have permission to sleep in my room. I have work to do in the meantime; I won't be bothering you."

"I..." The promise of a dark room is too strong. Dave barely sleeps as it is; the still-bright living room would be useless to him. "Yeah. Thanks, chickie. Really."

"Anything for my 'big brother'," Rose replies, a hint of a smirk playing across her lips.

"Then...I guess I'll go to bed, then," he says lamely. "Night, chickie."

"Good night, Dave."

On the stairs, Dave pauses. "Hey, Rose."

"Yes?" Rose glances up from the textbook she has pulled from the coffee table.

"I. There's something I should show you."

"Oh?"

"But not yet." Without a second glance, Dave runs up the stairs.

_ Not yet._


	48. It's Like a Giant Dick Joke

"Dave?"

Rose's voice invades his murky dreams, distant but intelligible. He flounders on the brink of the unconscious, but eventually lucidity wins out and he's brought back to reality.

Dave tries to respond, but his brain is still fuzzy and his mouth is still asleep, so all that comes out is a strange "mwaauh?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No shit," Dave croaks, struggling to sit up but finding no firm purchase on the pillows below him to aid him.

In the half light, Dave can just make out the slight raise of Rose's eyebrows. "Really? My apolgies, then. I am far too used to you being awake, it seems." She presses two fingers to his forehead and pushes him back down with infuriating ease. "I think the only time I have seen you legitimately asleep was when you were on the brink of death."

Dave might be half asleep, but he doesn't miss the weight of the comparison. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are," Rose replies, not even making an effort to pretend she believes him.

"I am. All better."

"That would imply you were not 'better' before." Rose sits beside him. "Something happened."

"Nothing important."

"Don't test me, Dave. I am very, very weary of that sort of god damned lying statement." Dave doesn't need to be able to make out the details of her expression to know she's exhausted. He fumbles around until he finds her hand, then squeezes it in his own.

"I'm okay, chickie. I promise."

"Oh, yes. I believe you. Certainly."

Dave shifts uncomfortably. "Rose-"

"Let's all say we're fine, hm? That will solve _everything_."

He's starting to realize what he should do, what he should have done before, and his tone changes. "Rose, I-"

"It isn't as though I could _help_ you at all, oh, no, that's simply ridicul-"

"Rose!" Dave interrupts, feeling the anxiety rise in his chest.

"What?" snaps Rose.

After a long pause and a deep breath, Dave says, "I'll...I'll show you."

Still a little brusque, Rose only says a simple "thank you" before going to turn on the lights.

Now that everything is illuminated, the terror heightens. What the fuck is he thinking, promising something like that? She's the last person he wants to find out. He can't. It's impossible, at least if he wants any chance at an okay relationship with her. He can't face losing another sibling, not like this.

"I'm waiting."

Dave takes another deep breath. No, he has to. He can't pretend forever-one wrong move and she'd find out anyway. He might as well be the one to tell her.

"Alright, before I do anything, there are some things I have to say first," Dave states. He feels a little better pretending there are conditions, as though he can control the situation. "Look, I know you've had some problems with this sort of thing before so just promise me that you won't freak out, okay."

Rose raises an eyebrow but nods.

"It's kind of annoying, but there's nothing really wrong, and to be honest I don't give two shits, so you shouldn't either, okay."

"It would be easier to agree if I knew what you were talking about," Rose says.

Dave sighs. "Yeah. Alright." He closes his eyes, draws a long breath, and lifts his shirt just high enough to reveal the scar on his stomach.

For a long period, there is complete silence. Dave doesn't know what's happening so he slowly opens his eyes again, trying to judge the reaction. To his strange surprise, Rose seems to be doing the same.

"Uh," says Dave.

"Oh, Dave." Rose sits beside him again and frowns ever so slightly, her eyes flicking from his face to the scar and back again.

"It's-it's nothing. Seriously, I just woke up and it was there and I mean, at least my guts aren't falling out so it's a pretty good bargain, I think. It doesn't hurt or anything, well, I mean it gets kind of tight in the winter but I think that's just a skin thing and-"

"May I touch it?"

Dave just stares dumbly back at her. "What."

"Is it alright if I touch it?" she asks.

There's a war waging inside Dave now because he's afraid that if she touches him, it'll be that same awful, pitying touch. It might be well-intentioned, but gentleness arising from misguided sympathy makes him feel sick. He doesn't want her to feel bad. Fuck, if he doesn't feel anything about it, why the hell should she? In fact, it's almost amusing. A fitting patch-up job for just another puppet of the game. Better to have an ugly gut than a holey one.

But in the end, he knows he has to agree. This is Rose asking him, and he can't say no to her. Not now. There wasn't even a point to it anymore; he'd already crossed the line. Might as well go all the way and get it all done with. Maybe then he could start picking up the pieces.

"Uh. I guess so. Sure." Dave leans back a little and Rose runs her hand over the puckered mark. He shivers slightly under her touch, but it isn't what he'd been dreading by a long shot. She's gentle, sure, but ever since she found him, she'd been gentle. It wasn't like she had a long standing history of rough affection, either; she wasn't the one starting rooftop strifes or forcing him to watch shitty mech cartoons every friday night. It's not bad.

Really...it's pretty nice. What he had always thought was a permanent knot in his stomach was starting to loosen-just a little-and it calmed whatever leftover fear and anxiety still persisted. She's mending the ragged hole-no, she's reminding him that it hasn't existed in years. It's gone now, gone for good, and Dave suddenly wants to cry. It's just...nice.

"Dave?"

For the second time in half an hour, Dave is called back to the present by Rose's quiet call. He looks at her for a moment before realizing he's been pressing her hand tight to his stomach and leaning into the touch. "Shit!" He quickly releases her, reacting as though he's been scalded, and shoves himself further up the bed and away from her. "Fuck, Lalonde-Rose-I'm sorry."

"Are you alright?" Her violet eyes are on his face and he feels the blood rush to his cheeks.

"I'm fine," he mutters. "Fucking peachy."

"Oh?" she says lightly.

"Yes, 'oh', don't fucking 'oh' me," Dave growls. "I'm motherfucking fine."

"Really? Because my observational skills do detect a rather serious case of mood whiplash," she says, lips twitching. "Fear, ecstasy, anger..."

Embarassment flares in Dave's throat. "It wasn't fucking ecstasy!"

"No?" Before Dave can fight back, Rose has slipped her hand under his shirt and ghosted across his stomach again. Just like before, the knot begins to loosen and his stress starts to ebb away.

In a very uncool moment, he collapses against her, face pressed to her shoulder.

"Oh my," says Rose.

"Fuck you," Dave replies weakly. "Stop it."

"Now why would I do that? I don't think I've ever seen you looking so peaceful. This will be wonderful to exploit in the future."

"Fuck you," he says again.

"I'm curious, though. I thought you had a rather potent healing factor."

"I do."

"And yet this-" Rose prods his stomach-"still persists? Even after all of these years?"

"Looks like it. Guess it's part of the reset state. Last save. This is how I'm meant to be. It doesn't do overlap, either." Dave lifts his shirt again and points to the now faded bruise. "This'd be what you were worrying about before. I told you I'd be fine."

"Dave, just because you won't be in pain later doesn't mean I shouldn't worry about you when you're in pain now," Rose sighs, inspecting the now-shadow of a wound. "It's the same for everyone; you just happen to mend a little faster than the rest."

Dave shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," says Rose. "_You_ matter."

At this, Dave gives up trying to resist. He succumbs to Rose's gentle ministrations, letting the knot slowly unfurl, lulling him into a state of relaxation.

"I hadn't expected something this...textured, you know," says Rose. "John's scars are much slimmer."

"You try having a sword ripped out of you and see if your patchwork gut turns out fancy," Dave replies.

"Ah. Yes, that is what I had guessed."

"Congladurations. You won. You get a gold star."

Rose ignores this. "If that was the cause, does it extend to your back as well?"

"Yeah." Dave shifts as Rose slides her hand around to his back, pulling him into a half-embrace.

"Here?"

"No," Dave snorts. "You'll feel it. I promise."

"Ah. Yes, of course."

Nonetheless, Dave can't stay annoyed for long and soon he's resting his head on her shoulder again as she traces the perimeter of the mark on his back with her fingers. Maybe he didn't sleep long enough and his body is protesting the premature return to consciousness, but Dave is, for once, feeling legitimately sleepy. Not pass-out sleepy or healing factor sleepy, but true sleepiness-something he hasn't really felt for years.

"Hey, chickie," he mumbles.

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For...not changing when you found out."

"Why would I change?"

Dave shifts again, lightheaded. "Trust me. Sometimes people do."

Rose simply kisses the top of Dave's head in reply, and soon he's dozing peacefully at her side.


	49. Bait n Switch

When Dave awakes, the first thing he notices is that it's very warm. He shifts a little, still not quite conscious, and he feels fingers threading through his hair.

"Did you have a good sleep?"  
>"Chickie?" Dave rubs his eyes and slowly straightens up. Save for the dim table lamp at Rose's side, the room is dark.<p>

"Yes?" Another absent smooth of his fringe and already Dave catches himself being lulled back into the soft promise of security.

"You...you don't have to stay if you're bored," he mutters.

"I am alright." The hand that's on his head travels down to his back, gently thumbing the mark beneath his shirt. She turns the page of the tome she's reading and all Dave can think of is how peaceful this is, how lucky he is that Rose is still Rose. He didn't lose her. She's still his chickie.

Dave falters a little. "You don't have to."

"I daresay I can manage something as small as this, Dave."

"That doesn't mean you have to-"

"Hush, Dave. Just rest."

"No, I'm...I'm alright. I don't need sleep." Dave runs his own fingers through his hair, making the ends stick up in funny directions, and Rose withdraws her hand.

"I think you might need it more than you seem to think," she replies lightly.

"Only when I'm hurt." Yes. Yes, that's right. That's the only time he really sleeps, if it can be called that. Of course.

"Perhaps," says Rose. "Perhaps not. You looked a little different this time around. Less...unconscious, more exhausted."

"You're seeing things." Dave isn't so sure, though. It felt different, today. Softer around the edges, all-encompassing and warm; it definitely wasn't the cold sleep of the dead.

"Am I?"

No, he's imagining things and Rose is imagining things, too. "Years later and you're still reading into shit too much." Dave slides his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. He sways a little, then steadies himself. He feels so warm and sluggish, it's difficult to perform even the smallest of actions. He can't succumb to this, though, it's too easy. It's not real. Dave doesn't sleep.

"Dave, you're going to fall down the stairs if you keep this up," Rose calls as he exits the room. He has to get outside. He doesn't know why, really, but he thinks it will wake him up. He doesn't even know what time it is. He could be bursting out at the pitch of night and it wouldn't matter.

"No, I'm not."

"Dave-"

And then he does.

"Jesus fuck!" Dave yelps, now little more than a heap of orange at the bottom of the stairs.

"Dave!" In an instant, Rose is beside him. "I didn't think you would actually-what are you thinking!"

"Outside," says Dave, still not quite working right. He keeps expecting a broken "I told you so", but nothing ever comes. "I wanted to go outside," he corrects lamely.

"Can you stand?"

Dave isn't really sure, but he tries anyway. With help from Rose, he makes it to his feet, sore but otherwise alright. She helps him to the front door and sets him down on the front steps.

"There," she says, closing the door and sitting beside him. "I hope you aren't planning to climb any trees like this."

"No." Dave doesn't feel like rising to the remark, so he closes his eyes and breathes in the fresh air. It looks like it's about evening now, and the breeze is nice and cool on his skin. It pulls away the overwhelming warmth of the indoors and he's starting to legitimately wake up at last.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Rose asks.

"No, I'm fine," he replies, glancing at her. "Bones strong as iron rods, chickie. You don't have to worry about me."

"I'm going to worry about you."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to." He twiddles his thumbs in his lap, glancing at the sky. Rose purses her lips, but she doesn't pursue an argument.

They fall into silence for a while, staring off into their respective directions.

"Dave?" Rose says at last.

"Yeah."

"Would you like to go to college?"

The question takes him so off guard that all he can do is stare at her, gaping like a fool. "I. What." What the hell? Where the fuck did that come from? He's pretty sure his complete bafflement is palpable, regardless of the shades shielding half his expression.

"Would you like to go to college?"

His mind snaps forward and he spiels, "Well, see, chickie, there's this thing in between called high school and I didn't exactly go t-"

"That isn't what I'm asking," says Rose. "Do you want to go to college?"

"It's not a matter of want, it's a matter of possibility. I don't think many places let in a dude with no-"

"Do you want to go?"

"Jesus, Lalonde, you've got a goddamn one track mind, even when you're wrong."

"I'm never wrong," says Rose. "Do you want to go?"

"Fuck, yes, I want to go. Of course I want to go! That doesn't mean I fucking _can_ go, though, does it? That sort of shit requires one hundred percent things I don't have, like, I dunno, money, education, connections-"

"John and I have been talking."

"You can talk all you want, it's not going to happen." Dave is starting to get annoyed because how the fuck can someone so smart be spewing such bullshit? There's no way in hell Dave would ever get in. Ever.

"After we talked, we contacted your brother."

Suddenly, the night feels a lot colder. Dave feels the blood drain from his face and he barely manages to croak, "You did _what_?"

"He agrees with us. He would like to see you in a nice school."

"For fuck's sake, Lalonde, listen to me! It doesn't matter what I want, or what anyone wants, because it's not going to happen! I am a goddamn _hobo_-I am not going to get into even the lowest of the low shitty-ass bottom feeding schools!"

"That's funny," Rose says quietly, still not looking at him. "Because we've already worked everything out."

"You worked ever-_how the fuck did you do that_? Please, Lalonde, tell these needy ears because _they'd really fucking like to know_."

"Oh, Dave." Rose sighs, finally tearing her eyes from the line of trees in the distance and resting them on his face. "As much as we tease, you _are_ intelligent. You really can't figure this out on your own?"

"Why don't you enlighten me," Dave snarls back.

Gently, Rose reaches up and trails her fingertips across his cheek. "For the first time, I would think, it has suddenly become very useful for us that you are not the only 'Dave Strider' we know."

Dave suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that there is no air in his lungs, and all he's left with is a vaguely horrified feeling of emptiness. No. This can't be happening.

_No._


	50. Emotional Cartwheels

An electric current is running down Dave's spine, but he can't find it in him to move and release it. He wants to get up and pace, to go for a walk, do anything that isn't just _sit here and stare._

But he can't.

Rose reaches over and smoothes his fringe. "It is alright, Dave. Just take a deep breath."

Dave can't breathe. His lungs won't work. He tries but nothing happens. Nothing at all.

"Come on, Dave. Relax. I am not forcing you into this, I promise. Just relax." Her hand drifts south, moving to touch the newfound mark on his stomach as if a peace offering.

The moment Rose's fingers light on his scar, brushing gently over the fabric, Dave snaps back into overdrive and springs to his feet.

"No. No. No."

"Dave, relax. Just think about this calmly."

"No, Rose, I can't. I can't do this. It's-it's so much money. I don't have any money, Rose, I'm a fucking hobo!" He rakes his fingers through his hair, bewildered. "I can't. Where would the money-Jesus fuck, I haven't even gone to high school! Even if you could get me in, I would flunk out of there first day, guaranteed!"

"Dave, calm down. I can teach you anything you didn't learn in high school, should you require it. There are shockingly few fundamentals you learn there, however; I have a feeling that it is maturity that makes college what it is, rather than legitimate education levels. You are smart. You are an adult. There is every chance that you could do alright, perhaps even thrive."

"This is fucking absurd! Do you know how goddamn ridiculous this is? It's a fucking sitcom plot, not my life!" He's shaking all over and he's quickly losing to the overwhelming panic.

"Sit down, Dave. Just listen to me. You aren't committed to anything yet, alright? It won't hurt you to just listen."

But it does hurt. It hurts to think of what he could have done, what should have been rightfully his to do. All the things he could have gone for, all the classes he could have taken, experiences above trying to make ends meet while living in back alley corners. In any other situation, it would've been okay, because in any other situation he wouldn't be Dave Strider, birdboy extraordinaire; he'd just be Dave. Dave the musician. Dave the photographer. Dave the taxidermist. It really didn't fucking matter, because any of those things would be better than Dave the hobo.

Dave is Dave the hobo, though, and he's got no money or clothes or education or shelter. He has pair of shades and a cell phone. He has clothes that will deteriorate faster than should be acceptable and about fifteen cents in his back pocket.

Dave is street scum.

His adrenaline rush now all burnt out, Dave sits down exactly where he was standing a moment prior. The grass is wet with evening dew, but he scarcely notices.

"I can't," he says, looking at Rose and feeling lost. "I can't."

"You can," she replies gently. "We have it taken care of, Dave. All you have to do is accept. We can make this happen."

"No." Dave buries his face in his hands. "I can't. I can't. I don't-I can't."

"You can. We can use Strider's records and the money I have gotten from my book."

"Rose, no, you can't, that's your-"

"Yes. It is my money and I will use it however I see fit. I do believe that an education for my big brother is vastly more important than literally any other thing I could purchase with it."

"Rose, it's...it's so much. You don't...you don't even know me."

"I know you, Dave. We still have catching up to do, but you are you and you are still my brother. No matter what colour you are now." Her lips twitch slightly.

"I...I have nowhere to live."

"You can stay in residence."

"I don't have clothes."

"I promise to provide you with all of the essentials. John will also help pay your way, Dave."

Dave chokes. "What. No. Why. Why the fuck would John chip in, I'm a fucking asshole to him."

"Yes," Rose agrees. "But he likes you."

"No he doesn't," Dave says automatically.

"Yes, he does. He wants to be your friend."

"And what, he's trying to buy that by sending me off to some school?" Dave narrows his eyes.

"No," Rose says, a faint strained annoyance in her voice. "He is trying to help give you the life you deserve because he is a good man and he happens to think you are friends."

Dave shifts, guilty. "...Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, apologize to him," Rose says stiffly. "Your brother can send us the records. He is offering to help cover expenses as well, bu-"

"No! Bro can't pay!" Dave shouts. "He absolutely is not allowed to have any part in this, under any circumstance. Don't take any fucking money from him!"

Rose raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't comment. "I thought you may say that, so I politely declined. Between John and myself, we are rather well equipped at handling this, anyway."

The fight now thoroughly out of Dave, he just nods. "...Alright. And I don't have to do this?"

"No. It is your choice."

He stares hard at the grass at his feet, plucking a few stray blades. "Where would I even go."

"Well," Rose says mildly. "I do believe that my university has a rather reputable photography program, if you are interested."

This does interest Dave. He tries not to betray his thoughts, but he thinks Rose picks up on them anyway. He hasn't touched a camera in a very, very long time, but he had always liked to think that he had a knack for the art. He looks down at his hands, imagining the satisfying weight of a decent piece of photo equipment in them. Setting up a shot. Taking a thousand to make sure he got it right. Finishing touches. His fingers twitch slightly as he plays with imaginary dials and buttons in his mind.

_No_.

Dave shakes his head, dispelling the seductive thoughts. Fuck, he'd been out of civilization for how many years? Even if he was decent before, cameras would have changed a hell of a lot. Sometimes he saw them in stores, fancy and costing more than he had seen since the days of Bro's sound systems.

Sometimes even more.

At this, Dave is a little disheartened. He couldn't accept. The cost of schooling alone was steep; adding on things like camera equipment would be ridiculous.

"The school provides the majority of what you use. You rent pieces out and return them much like in a library," Rose says, as though reading his thoughts.

"Jesus Christ, how did you-"

"It's written all over your face, Dave. Unlike your counterpart, you've slipped over the years." Rose stands up and approaches, kneeling in front of him a short distance away. "It is okay to want this, you know." She brushes his cheek and he shudders.

When Dave finds his voice, it comes out as little more than a hoarse whisper. "It's not okay. I can't-I can't ask you to do something like that, chickie. It's so much."

"I think you deserve it."

"I'm...scared."

"Hush." Rose strokes his hair and he finds himself relaxing. "I know it is a lot to take in. Just consider it, hm? We can talk about this again when you are feeling up to it."

Dave nods slightly and Rose wraps her arms around him.

"Good boy." This time it's Rose's turn to press a kiss into the top of his head, and he lets out a tiny coo in response. "There. Nice and calm, that's a good little bird."

Dave nods again. "Yeah. Alright. Just...later."

"Of course. Come back inside now, Dave, it's getting cold. I will make you a warm drink," Rose soothes.

"I'm always warm," he says absently, still feeling a little charmed. He wonders where Rose learned to manipulate so well, so efficiently. He follows her, dazed, back into the house, and as she calls him to the kitchen, he finds he doesn't really care.

School with Rose.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.


	51. Serious Business

Dave hunches over Rose's laptop, feeling both guilt and shame as the flickering screen illuminates his face. Rose has been asleep for several hours now and he knows he should have asked for permission to borrow the computer. He pushes these feelings aside, however, as he slowly reacquaints himself to the interface. It's been a long time since he's fooled around on a computer and it seems fancier than he remembers, but despite the bells and whistles it's pretty much the same.

His stomach quivers as he flicks the browser open and types in the name of Rose's school, pressing the keys softly to keep the clatter from waking her. Dave hates himself for even considering this, but his curiosity has gotten the better of him and he has to know.

Dave skims a couple paragraphs on the college's main site, legs tucked to his chest, eyes peeking out over his knees. As he scrolls, a faint nostalgia creeps over him. Suddenly, he's 13 again, at the top of the world. Of _course_ he's going into photography, Egbert, get your head out of your goddamn ass. Blogs are just an ironic pastime. Okay, yeah, photography, too. No, he is not a fucking hipster. Fuck you, John.

Shaking his head, Dave's eyes refocus on the page. The creeping suspicion he had had before is confirmed. Rose's school is nice, but it's geared toward her interests in study—not his. The photography program barely gets a line between the scientific jargon sandwiching it.

Hesitantly, Dave opens a new tab and scavenges his memory. He had looked into this before, years ago, when he was partway serious about this shit. He would have brushed it off if asked, of course, but it was a mutual understanding between himself and Bro that if he could get into college, he damn well better try.

Not everyone was cut out for the puppet business, after all.

An uncomfortable twinge passes over Dave's shoulders at the thought of Bro and he pulls his knees closer. That past doesn't belong to him anymore—it belongs to the other guy. Dave's finger trails across the track pad until it falls off the edge of the laptop and his hand falls limp to the bed.

Fuck.

What is he thinking, pretending he can do this? He's not cut out for college. He's not even a fucking adult yet. Not really. Dave strains to calculate how long he's actually been awake these past couple years—alive. How much time did his stints in recovery comas really cut away from his life? In terms of social experience, Dave weighs in at nil.

He can't do this at all.

Dave raises his hand again, fingers lighting at the lid of the laptop, ready to gently shut it.

He can't do that either.

So he pulls up a couple extra tabs and begins typing in garbled names from his fuzzy memory and Google corrects his inquiries a few times before he manages to get the results he wants. The sites have updated, for the most part—he closes the ones that haven't, they obviously don't take pride in the sort of thing they exist to educate for—but he recognizes most of them.

Dave rakes the fingers of his free hand through his hair as he skims the information, catching himself just before a smile creeps across his face. Quickly, he shakes his head again in scolding and forces himself to focus.

Focus, asshole, focus.

Out of all the schools he reads up on, one sticks out to him. It isn't the fanciest of them all, but it looks solid and it has some pretty alright review.

And the campus is close to Rose.

This tab stays open long after he's close all the others—Rose's college being the first of them to go. _Sorry, chickie._

Dave allows himself exactly five minutes of daydreaming about what it would be like to go to classes at this college. In this scenario, he's a normal student. He writes papers and does projects and he's a little awkward but he manages to get along with people well enough that no one really pays him much attention. He does alright in this scenario, too. He's not remarkable by any standards, but considering where he's come from, it's a badge of honour to survive his courses at all.

And he visits his chickie almost every day.

Fantasy time is over. Dave hears the shift of bedsprings in the other room and panics, shutting the lid with a soft _click!_ He ducks behind the couch he had been sitting on and lies flat against the floor until the shuffling stops and silence reigns once more.

Dave lets out a slow breath.

Wouldn't it be nice?


	52. Welcome to Reality

"Good morning, Dave."

The ache in is back is first, followed by the slow awareness of his surroundings. Dave uncurls from his tight ball behind the couch and looks up, his eyes adjusting to the cold morning light.

"Did you sleep well?" Rose goes to sit on the couch, but Dave is still too disoriented to join her. His head pounds painfully and his muscles are stiff.

"I…slept," is all he can reply. He slept? _Here_?

How?

Dave looks down at his hands, unsure. He reaches across and pinches himself firmly on the arm, flinching at the shock of pain. Awake. He's awake, this isn't a dream, because Dave doesn't dream. He doesn't dream this, anyway, and this is reality.

"Are you alright?" Rose's palm is suddenly flush against his cheek and he starts. "You look pale." Before Dave can argue, she amends, "Paler than normal."

"I feel—cold," says Dave jerkily. He's cold. Yes, that's right, he's cold and he's…tired. He may have fallen asleep, but it's done him more harm than good. He stands. "I'm ok."

"Really? You certainly don't seem it." Rose gives his arm a tug and he slumps back into the cushions of the couch. "Are you ill?" Now her palm is on his forehead, down the back of his shirt, monitoring his temperature carefully. She pauses thoughtfully. "You do seem a little cooler than normal, Dave, but it's hard to tell with you."

"I'm always warm," Dave parrots. He can't think of anything new to say. His eyes hurt so he closes them.

Rose pulls a blanket down from the back of the couch and tucks him in place beneath it. "Would you perhaps like a hot drink? A cup of soup?"

Dave shakes his head. He doesn't want to move. He feels utterly drained of all his strength. He can still feel Rose watching him, though, can _feel_ her calculating her next move. It makes him tired.

The blanket shifts and he feels Rose join him under it.

"Is this alright?"

Dave nods and she rests her head against his shoulder, tucking them in again.

"You'll feel warmer soon, Dave. It'll be ok." She rests her hand lightly on his stomach, gently smoothing where she knows the scar to be. He squirms a little before the knot begins to loosen and he exhales.

"Thanks." Dave doesn't want to tell her that he's afraid. He's never cold because he's Davesprite, Dave the glitch. Being cold means being wrong, feeling something he shouldn't be able to feel anymore. He shivers and she hugs him gently, her breath warm on his neck. He wants to return the embrace, to hold her close, to be protected, but he knows she can't protect him from whatever fear is gnawing away inside him.

He's scared now. He's finally fallen into a life that's worth living and he's scared it's going to disappear and he's scared because he knows he can't tell her the real reason he's shaking when it's not really just about the cold. He _knows_.

Feeling cold means feeling human.

Feeling human means his invulnerability's just run out.


	53. What is Even Happening

"Are you asleep?" Rose murmurs.

"No," Dave replies, finally mustering the strength to speak. He allows himself to take her hand in his and rest his cheek against her head but nothing more. She doesn't need to know about his fears—hell, maybe he's worrying for nothing. It's not like he has _proof_.

And, god, how he doesn't want proof. Some theories are better left unconfirmed.

So he sinks deeper into their makeshift nest, pulling his legs up on the couch and tucking them beneath him. It seems like Rose is the one falling asleep now, her breathing slow and rhythmic against his neck. He focuses on this pattern, in and out, in and out, in and out until he feels his own eyelids begin to droop. The anxiety in the pit of his stomach is threatening him with terrible visions, trying to scare him awake, but he eventually succumbs to the exhaustion and all is black once more.

_Clack, clack, tap, clack clackity clack._

Dave opens his eyes, this time to a comfortable feeling of warmth. Rose has pulled her laptop from the copy table and is resting it on one knee, periodically switching tabs on her browser and typing new addresses. Sleep is beckoning him again, making his vision swim, and he begins to drift off again.

Begins to drift off, that is, until a certain logo catches his eye and he snaps awake once more, terror seizing him.

"Rose!"

"Good morning," she says again.

"Fuck," says Dave, horrified. "Fuck, I—I didn't mean to—"

"It's quite alright, Dave," Rose replies evenly, her lips twitching, threatening to spread into a smile. "I understand." She flicks the open tab back to the college website and Dave shrinks back.

"I…didn't mean to leave it open."

"Out of all the things you're apologizing for, that's the one you chose?" she teases. "Not, 'I'm sorry I took your computer without asking'?"

"I'm sorry I took your computer without asking," he says mechanically. "I—it's not important, you can close it."

"On the contrary, it seems very important. You wouldn't have used my laptop otherwise."

Dave sinks back into the cushions, pulling the blanket closer. He tries not to shiver. "It's not important," he says again, though his conviction is less than convincing.

"It's alright, Dave. This is your life. You have a say in it, too."

"I guess." He shifts, uncomfortable. He feels ungrateful for looking at other schools after Rose went to the trouble of finding him a program at hers. A shitty program, maybe, just an aside for any hapless art students finding themselves in the wrong area of academia but—

Dave shakes his head. No. _No_. Shut up!

"Dave?"

He's roused from his self-deprecating inner dialogue to find Rose looking at him, a rather concerned expression her face.

"Dave, do you want to go to this school?"

Unable to answer, he just looks away. He can't say it.

"You can go to this school, Dave, but you have to tell me you want it. I won't know unless you're clear."

Dave's heart beats a tempo against his chest as the war within him rages. _Tell her! Shut up! Tell her! _It's insufferable and chaotic and everything is happening all at once. He cradles his head in his hands, trying to work out which voice of reason to listen to.

"Dave."

He gives a yelp as he feels fingertips slide across the skin of his stomach, resting against his scar. At once, the arguing ceases and he's able to breathe again. He inhales shakily and says, "Yeah. I want to go."

Rose gives him a warm smile—a genuine smile—and gives him a little hug. "That's my birdie." She closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table, returning to rest her head against his shoulder. "You're going to have fun there, Dave. Your brother thinks so, too."

Bro thinks so? Dave almost wants to ask, but he's still nervous when it comes to his brother and so he says nothing. If Bro thinks it looks good, maybe he was right when he selected it as his top choice. Maybe his doppelganger had wanted to go for something similar, too, before he'd picked up on music. Music and law. What the fuck?

_ No, don't think about him._

"You do feel a little cool, Dave. Do you want to sleep in my bed for a while? I can give you extra blankets."

"I'm scared," Dave blurts out. For a moment, he's shocked at his own admission.

"It's alright, Dave. I'll help you with anything you don't understand."

"No, I—" Dave stops himself. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks, chickie. I'll make you proud."

"I know you will."

"…Yeah."


End file.
